When Darkness Falls

Chapter 12

Four months later….

Foyle looked up into the sky as he approached the steps of his house, studying the clouds as they swirled around. Considering how cold Autumn had been, he was surprised that they hadn't had any snowfall as yet. January was usually accompanied by a heavy covering of white but today the streets were awash with colour and the air was clear and crisp.

Most of the church pews were empty this morning, only a scattering of familiar faces and a handful of new ones but what was most alarming was the growing number of widows in the second to last pew. He'd offered his condolences to Mrs Marshall, the newest addition to the eclectic group, over a cup of over-stewed tea after the service. He'd heard about Johnathan Marshall's death on Wednesday from Constable Browne – Mrs Marshall, apparently, being a distant relative of his mother's.

The cold air had made his fingers numb. Rosalind would have chided him for not wearing gloves but the fuss of having to take them on and off made him shrug off the need. He fumbled with his house key and, after the third attempt, unlocked the door.

As he entered his front hall an unusual sight greeted him. On the coat rack, tucked behind his corduroy house coat, was a dark blue flying jacket, the thick lamb's wool collar making it hang awkwardly. He grinned, then a full faced smile followed.

"Andrew!" he called, excitedly, although his voice wasn't loud. Pushing open the living room door he spotted a body laying on the long settee, a tartan rug draped over it's shoulders. By the slow rise and fall of the chest, Foyle knew that his son was asleep but the frequent twitching of his feet told him that wakefulness was not far off. He slowly, and almost silently, closed the door and walked the long way to the kitchen.

By the time he'd produced the tea tray and brought it to the living room his son was stirring. Andrew sat up and yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth – his mother would have been aghast.

"Andrew" Foyle simply said and slid the tray onto a small table that he'd dragged over with his foot.

"Hello, Dad." The rug, the same one that used to cover him completely when he was a lad but now barely stretched from shoulder to knee, slipped off the settee and fell to the floor with a flump. Foyle took a step forward and picked it up. Folding it over once, he draped it back over his son's shoulders in a shawl-like manner. Last night's fire needed re-lighting, the room uncomfortably chilled by its absence. For now, though, a blanket would have to suffice.

"When did you get in?" Foyle asked, returning to the tray.

Andrew flipped his wrist and blinked a few times as his eyes focused. "About eight" he finally said.

Foyle nodded and poured out the two cups. He'd deliberately chosen the white set with the small painted red rose on the edge, one Rosalind would have preferred for such an occasion.

"Church?" Andrew asked, accepting the cup and saucer his father offered.

"Mmmm." He considered telling his son about those that he'd spoken to, and heard about, both during and after the service but stopped himself. Not the time – perhaps it never would be.

"Got much leave?" Foyle asked, turning to see to the fire. The pile of logs was getting low, he noticed, and so he made a mental note to go outside later today and swing his axe.

"A couple of days" Andrew said after he'd taken quite a rough swallow of his tea. "Gotta be back by roll call on Tuesday evening. Sorry it's not much."

"No….No, I'm happy to get any time with you, son" Foyle said, crouching in front of the grate, a small piece of kindling in his hand acting as a taper. "And I do know that you don't get much of a choice in the matter."

"Actually I was lucky to get this time off …...we've all been a bit crook lately..."

Foyle sprang back up, rising so quickly that he had to grab onto the edge of the fireplace to steady himself until his head stopped spinning. "You've not been well?"

Andrew shook his head and then upended his cup into his mouth, the edge not even touching his lip. Since when did he become so uncivilised?

"We've all had some sort of flu, the doc said. I was down for about a week."

Andrew let himself flop back in the seat and crossed his ankles on the foot stool in front of him. The same stool that Foyle had dragged out of a cupboard in the basement for Sam while she was here. He was yet to put it away even though she'd been gone from his house for weeks….months.

"And you're alright now?" Foyle asked his son in a quiet yet expectant voice.

"I think so" Andrew replied. "I feel alright."

The fire had warmed the room just a little. Andrew pulled off the rug, dropping it in a heap on the seat beside him, the edge of it dragging on the dusty floor below.

"How have you been, Dad?"

Andrew stood and helped himself to a second cup. Foyle watched him drop in two spoonfuls of sugar into the brew and stir it roughly.

Of course Foyle had told Andrew in a letter that both he and Sam had been present during a raid over Three Oaks but, unwilling to cause his son too much worry, he'd left out most of the details and almost all of the guilt, fear and anxiety. In truth Foyle had only told him in case he had heard from another source and begun to worry. Better for Andrew to hear a sanitised version of events from his father than an over dramatised account from a stranger.

"Haven't been caught in any more raids?" Andrew's smile was a cheeky one, child-like.

"No."

Foyle knew what question was coming next but expecting something and wanting it to happen are two very different things. He drained what was left of his tea and slid the cup onto the small table beside him. He waited.

"How's Sam?" Andrew asked as he flopped himself down onto the settee again. He toed off his shoes and casually put his feet back onto the stool, crossing his ankles.

Foyle took a deep breath and touched his tongue to his top lip.

"Well" he began, flicking a glance to his son before continuing, "in her last letter, she seemed to be well … and quite pleased."

"A letter?" Andrew asked, his face showing his puzzlement. "Is she on leave?"

"Nooo. She, uh, is living up in Lyminster now. I have a new driver….Browne."

Andrew suddenly sat up and turned to look straight at his father.

"Oh my God, Dad! You didn't send her home …..to her parents, did you?"

Andrew's lower jaw dropped slightly as his eyes narrowed.

"I did nothing of the sort." Foyle linked his hands together in his lap and crossed his legs.

"Then, she …..just left?" Andrew's eyes still glared.

"She, um, …..got married.

The air suddenly escaped from Andrew's lungs and he seemed to deflate as he sank back into the chair.

"Mmmmarried?" he asked with what little air was left in his chest.

"Mmmm. About six weeks ago. Nice chap. They're living near her parents. Her husband is, um, studying to be her father's Curate."

"You didn't mention anything" Andrew said in a small voice as he eyes stared blankly at the wall across from him. His palms sat lifelessly on the settee beside him. "….your last letter."

"Well," Foyle replied, pausing to draw in a deep breath, "it wasn't my story to tell, was it?"

Andrew's head began to rock back and forth, his hair brushing against the back of the seat.

"No. You're right, Dad. It's none of my business, really."

It could have been your business, Andrew, Foyle wanted to scream but ...of course he didn't. It would have benefited no one to say such a thing. And he would have sounded no better than a pompous fool.

"So….what's his name?" Andrew asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Hmm?" Foyle pulled at the knot on his tie.

"This chap that Sam's…..?"

"Grimshaw…..Daniel Grimshaw" Foyle quickly muttered, saving his son from uttering the final part of the sentence.

Andrew's breathing seemed to be laboured and he had begun to stare at the wall again.

"Another cup?" Foyle asked, nodding to Andrew's teacup.

"Got anything stronger?"

Foyle grimaced and looked at the small clock on the mantle. "Bit, um...bit early, isn't it?"

Andrew gave one quick shake of his head. Foyle rose and stepped over to his liquor tray. He poured out a finger of bourbon, anything else was far beyond even his reach at the moment, and added a decent splash of water.

"Is she happy?" Andrew asked quietly, taking the tumbler his father offered.

It was an odd question, Foyle thought, especially from someone who had had the power of that happiness in his own grasp not so long ago, but threw it away. And did he really think that Samantha Stewart would marry someone that she wasn't truly in love with?

"She is….very much so" Foyle replied, sitting back down in his chair. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat. "Her father performed the marriage" he explained, running a hand over his tie. "And, uh, I gave her away."

"Ooohhh" was all Andrew could manage, his cheeks beginning to glow although Foyle couldn't tell if it was the alcohol, the warmth of the fire, or the storm that he supposed was brewing in his son's belly. Perhaps it was a good time to bring an end to this conversation for now. Surely there was something better for them to speak of.

"How do you know she's happy, Dad?" There was a wistful tone in Andrew's voice, and he stared at his hands which were, by now, linked together in his lap.

Foyle debated the wisdom of giving the truthful answer to his son's question but, as he'd never known a lie to benefit anyone in the longer term, he resolved to be honest.

"I know she's happy because she told me….in her last letter. In fact, she told me that, uh, she's expecting. Due in the summer."

Andrew didn't move, he just breathed. Words seemed to have escaped his ability for the moment so Foyle just waited. He had time.

"Then...I'm happy, too, Dad" he finally whispered. "For her I mean." Andrew turned his head to look at his father. "I know it sounds….trite, Dad but if Sam's happy then…..so am I."

Foyle gave one nod.

Andrew's inner turmoil seemed to disperse, his eyes lost their haze and even the colour came back to his cheeks. He smiled – it was small but genuine.

"Will you visit her, Dad….when the baby's born, I mean?"

"Well, I really ought to" Foyle admitted, his hand still touching his tie. "I'm to be the child's Godfather."

End.