September 1940

During and after the episode "Fifty Ships" in Foyle's War. Beginning of the second season of the series.

Please, I'm not kidding myself here. I don't own the rights to these characters, Anthony Horowitz does, and he has done an excellent job with them. This piece is in homage to the original.

Many thanks to Treva Rea and dancesabove for their help with story development and copyediting. I had a bit of a rough time this morning uploading the edited doc so I'm sorry if you came by and didn't find it. Let me know if there are any obvious typos, please!

-Emma

It had been a strange morning for Foyle.

First, he had run into Arthur Lewes, a barrister whose wife, Elizabeth, he had briefly courted in his youth. Soon after the unexpected encounter with Lewes, Elizabeth herself arrived, and Foyle was thrown back more than twenty-five years, to the young man he had been before meeting Rosalind. It was enough to give any man a good shake.

To top matters off, Milner had arrived a moment later to tell him that Sam's house had been bombed overnight. Foyle had been worried when Sam hadn't shown up on time that morning, but he was even more worried when Milner couldn't say if anyone had been injured by the bomb. Together, the two men went as quickly as they could to the site of the wreckage, Mr. Rivers driving. Foyle was indescribably relieved when he saw Sam sitting on an old sofa among the ruins of the row house, her hair tousled as if she had just got out of bed. He could not resist the urge to put his hands on her arms as she tried to stand up to greet him, not even caring that Milner was there.

"I'm sorry I didn't show up for work, Sir," Sam said. I hope that you were not too worried about me, she thought. I would hate to cause you concern.

"It couldn't matter less," he said, sincerely. "Do sit down." What he would have given to be able to take her into his arms at that moment! If he weren't on the job, if Milner weren't next to them, if the Auxiliary Fire Service and Sam's landlady weren't all scurrying around in their midst—there is so much more that he would have said, so much more that he would have done. But he was still on duty, no matter what had happened to Sam, and from the looks of things, there might be something that needed to be investigated.

"Take her to the station," Foyle commanded Milner, once Sam had finished telling them about the night's events. She seemed shaken by the death of her flatmate, another young woman, and Foyle wanted to get her away from the disturbing scene as soon as possible. But Sam insisted on staying, and he did not push the point. He had seen this before, how survivors were reluctant to leave the scene where others had died. It might help with the shock of the event if Sam were able to stay and witness what happened next. Foyle acquiesced to Sam's wish, leaving her to speak with Mrs. Harris, her landlady, who appeared quite concerned about some rare coins that had gone missing in the bombing.

Sam, who might have been killed, seemed more precious to him that day than she had ever been before. Even as Foyle went about talking to the landlady, his mind was distracted by the thought of how easily Sam might have been lost, if the bomb had gone five feet in the other direction. She had had a close call, and he hoped that she was all right, inside as well as out. It must have been shocking for her to see her flatmate killed in that fashion. He wondered what else would come of all this. Would Sam's family decide that Lyminster was a safer place for her to be? Would she develop a phobia of planes flying overhead, like so many he knew on the south coast? Somehow he couldn't imagine Sam spending every night in the Wolseley, parked far away from town. No matter how much he associated her with the car, he knew that she was more resilient than most, and was unlikely to end up traumatized.

Back at the station later that day, Foyle addressed practical matters first with Sam.

"What about finding somewhere else to live?" he asked, trying to sound impartial. Somehow the AFS had managed to save a trunk of her belongings before fire had taken over fire. She was seated in her office in her spare uniform, looking as downcast as Foyle had ever seen her. He had poured her a small glass of whisky to settle her nerves, and she clung to the glass tightly, not letting it go even when she put it down on the table.

"I'll find something, Sir," she responded. Foyle heard Milner's careening gait in the hallway and the sergeant walked in to join them. He had been about to offer Sam the spare room in his house, the one Andrew had left empty when he went to Oxford. But the sergeant's sudden entry made it impossible to speak of the subject. Besides, they had a case to attend to.

The ostensible purpose of their meeting was to discuss the bombing and the stolen objects, so Foyle quickly turned to professional business. Sam provided an account of what she had seen the night before, and Foyle directed his attention back to the matter at hand. But he kept watching Sam as she recounted the events, and he was struck by how changed her expression was from just a day earlier.

Again, he felt his heart catch in his throat when he dared to think that he might have lost her that day. She was so young, so unbelievably young, and to think that she might have been killed! Foyle did not like to dwell on the possibility. He had already lost so many people in his life: his parents, though their deaths had been long ago; his dear Rosalind and any chance of growing old together; Rosalind's first pregnancy, to miscarriage; his comrades in the Great War, those farm boys whom he had fought beside, who had elevated him to their commander. Love was sweet but its loss lasted longer. With Andrew at daily risk of being sent on a mission, Foyle wondered how much more time remained with his son.

And now, there was Sam. She sat there in his office, as she had so many times before, calm on the surface but obviously ruffled inside. Foyle knew that working through the shock would help Sam, as it had so often helped him in the past. Work had seen him through the roughest moments in his life, like during his wife's illness or, long ago, when Elizabeth had jilted him for Lewes. It had been a great surprise to see Elizabeth at the court that morning. He had not thought about her in years, had never let his mind dwell again on what might have been. Forgetting her had been easier than continually pondering the loss.

He wished that Sam could so easily forget what had happened to her the night before. He worried about what the consequences might be if he let her stew for too long in her own thoughts. Milner left to see about some files, and Foyle was again alone with Sam in his office.

"Sam," he said gently, wishing that he could touch her but knowing that he must never do so in the station. "Are you well?"

"Not quite well, Sir," she said. Back to being the driver again. Foyle was momentarily hurt by the change, but then acknowledged to himself that the formality of their roles might help her remain calm and anchored even while she was trying to figure out what it meant to have escaped death so narrowly.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked. He did so want to help her, but he didn't know what he could do right then as her boss. As for acting like more than just her boss, it was impossible for him to do at the moment. He tried to convey his concern for her with a kind gaze, but she had turned her face away from him.

"No," she said, shaking her head sadly. "I just keep thinking of Jenny—keep thinking that it could have been me. She was nearly my age, and now she's dead. I don't want to die—I feel like I've barely lived yet!" She looked up into Foyle's face. He noticed, not for the first time, how dark her eyes were, almost black.

"Sam—" he started, awkwardly.

"You don't need to say anything!" she said, wiping away a tear from her eye. "I just want to be left alone for a few minutes. Can't you give me that?" She was sorry to speak to him so roughly but she didn't think she would be able to stop crying if he kept on looking at her in that way, with such sympathy and concern in his eyes. Part of her wanted to bury herself deep in his arms and let him rock her to sleep, while another part of her wanted him to leave her alone for a very, very long time.

Foyle obeyed her request and stood up to leave. He feared saying anything that would upset Sam further and make her say things that she would later regret. Besides, there were lots of things to look into that day, starting with the AFS team that had responded to the bombing. And, he remembered, he still had a dinner party to go to that evening, albeit one that he was not looking forward to very much.

"Sam, can you drive me to dinner tonight?" Foyle asked Sam later that day, coming in to the room where she and Milner were working to sort case files. For Milner's sake, he kept up the pretense of being just a boss who expected his driver to follow his orders. Privately, Foyle would have preferred to spare Sam the chore of driving him to dinner, but no one else at the station was available that evening. There would be plenty of time for him to walk home and change into his dinner clothes before Sam picked him up at his doorstep.

"Yes, Sir," she said, a bit reluctantly. "What time?"

"Well, uh—six? Can you come by my house at six this evening? I need to change before dinner."

"Do you need me to drive you home first?" she asked politely.

"No, no, Sam, keep on as you were. I'll walk home. Just meet me there at six to take me to the Lewes'."

"Very good, Sir." Foyle left the office and Milner considered the exchange. He thought that it was rather hard of Foyle to ask Sam to work that night when she had just been bombed out of her house the night before.

"Must be some dinner party he has to get to," he commented to Sam. She smiled tightly.

"Yes, can't imagine why he needs to make himself so fancy. I would have thought the regular suit was good enough."

Somehow, Sam managed to pull herself together for the rest of the afternoon. She had been avoiding Foyle after he asked her to drive him, that much he could see, but he let her have some time to herself. He left the station without saying good-bye to her; he knew that he could trust her to bring the Wolseley around at the time he had indicated.

True to form, Sam was thirty seconds late. Foyle had expected that she would look glum, but he was rather relieved by how quickly she returned to her bright, noisy self after the day's difficult events. In the car she tried (rather unsuccessfully), to amuse him with a story of a woman who had been robbed by a policeman in London. Can't he see that I'm nattering on about nothing in particular? Sam thought to herself. He doesn't even see how much of a wreck I am right now. Must be that blasted dinner party.

Indeed, Foyle was preoccupied with the upcoming dinner and seemed not to hear her until she asked him where he was going and whom he'd be seeing.

"So, whom are you having dinner with?" she asked. Foyle wondered if there was just a hint of jealousy in her voice. Did she want me to take her with me? He asked himself. Or does she just wish that I could see her again tonight? God knows I would prefer to be with her rather than rubbing elbows with the "V.I.P.s" of Hastings.

"A man called Arthur Lewes," Foyle told her, deliberately avoiding mention of Lewes' wife. "He's a barrister, a very good barrister. I knew him years ago." He tried to sound casual but Sam, as she so often did of late, picked up the strange note in his voice.

"You never mentioned him before," she said.

After a pause, Foyle said, "No, I never mentioned him." Sam looked at him with curiosity.

Foyle wondered if she expected him to tell her everything, now that they were seeing each other outside of work. He would have to set her straight on that point. He had had a life before he met her, and there were parts of that life that he might choose not to share with her. She would simply have to understand that.

"Sam," he said, "There are some things I prefer not to discuss with you. Please don't make it an issue."

"Yes, Sir," she said coldly. "When should I pick you up?"

Just then, a man appeared in the front of the car, startling both of them. Sam reacted quickly and braked in time, but not before he hit her bumper. The man ran off into the darkness and there was no chance to ask him if he was all right.

"Was that him?" Sam asked, hoping that they had spotted the mysterious Mr. Lewes.

"No, it wasn't," Foyle said, a bit perplexed.

"Well, I hope it wasn't the cook," Sam joked. Then, "You still haven't told me what time you'd like me to pick you up."

"Are you planning on leaving me here and then coming back?" he asked her.

"Did you expect me to wait here all night while you were hobnobbing with Americans and barristers? I need to do something back at the station. Don't worry, I shan't take long." So, Foyle thought, she is miffed that she didn't get an invitation to dinner. How ridiculous. She's still my driver, for God's sake. I can't have her just waltz in on my arm as my special guest. Not yet, at least.

"Elizabeth," Foyle said, as Lewes' wife greeted him. "You are looking well." It was a polite comment, nothing more. But Elizabeth did look well: in fact, she looked splendid, in a black velvet frock with an unusual gold and white collar that set off her face to great effect.

"I'm glad you agreed to come," she said softly. "So are you!" she added, a bit nonsensically. Foyle thought that she appeared nervous. Elizabeth quickly changed the subject. "How is Andrew?"

"Andrew is—very well," Foyle said. "And you've got two sons, is that right?"

"Yes, yes. Jack's in London at the MOI and my other son, Christopher, is still at school, thank God." She looked down, aware that she had revealed too much already, just with the mention of her younger son.

"Really?" Foyle said. "Christopher?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered, hoping both that he would and would not understand why she had given her son that name.

Just then, Lewes came bounding into the foyer, practically shouting out the same name, delighted to see Foyle: "Christopher!" He came towards the two of them. "Why is Elizabeth keeping you out in the hall?"

It was not the most amiable of company at the dinner, but Foyle could not deny that it was an interesting cast of characters, to rival the best of Agatha Christie's dinner parties: the American industrialist, the Hastings barrister, the local neurologist and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Lewes, of course. It was not the first time that Foyle had been forced to socialize with those who considered themselves his "betters," but he was somewhat surprised that an American like Howard Paige would notice the social distinction between himself and the rest of the guests.

The man, upon learning from Elizabeth that Andrew was at Oxford, remarked that it was not likely that Andrew would follow in his father's footsteps and go on to join the police. Foyle agreed with that statement, but not for the reasons that Paige thought he did. There was no chance of Andrew willingly doing anything that his father had done. If Christopher was loyal to a fault, Andrew was chameleonic in his attachments; where the father was cautious, the son was foolhardy; one was cold and calculating, the other all heat and fireworks. No, Andrew would not become a policeman. Likely enough, if he got out of this war alive, he would become a politician or some other such public figure. Even a barrister, perhaps, though Foyle shuddered to think of his son trying to defend another person in court. Though, to be fair, Andrew does enjoy the sound of his own voice, Foyle thought. Maybe he'd enjoy the audience of a courtroom. Let's just hope he never gets to be a magistrate…

Milner was working late that night at the station, doing his best to compile a thorough dossier on the AFS squadron. There was little point in going home early, when Jane was still in Wales and the house was cold and empty. Besides, he knew that Foyle would expect a report first thing the next morning, and Foyle was not one to let things slide if they didn't get done.

Milner did not expect to see Sam still at the station so late that night. Poor Sam, he thought. She just lost her home, she lost her friend to the Jerries, and now she has no one to take care of her or help her here in Hastings. Musing on his colleague's situation, he decided that the Christian thing to do was to invite her to stay in his spare room, until she could find more permanent living arrangements. If Jane had been there he was sure that she would approve, and if she was hiding out in Wales with her sister, then it was her fault, not his, that he couldn't let her know ahead of time what he intended to do.

Coming into where Sam was working, Milner asked her if she had found a place to stay yet. It was late at night and Sam was still hard at work ringing around to find suitable accommodations for herself. She had never imagined that it would be this difficult to find another room, but no one seemed to want to house unattached young ladies.

"They all seem to be full," she complained.

"How many have you tried?" Milner asked.

"A dozen." She looked up at him. It occurred to Milner that Sam was really quite fetching, and he felt a momentary sensation of disappointment, or loss, as he considered her presence in front of him.

"What will you do if you can't find anywhere?" he asked, putting his teacup down on her desk. She pursed her lips and looked down at her lap.

Sam had hoped that Foyle would have sensed the urgency of her predicament and helped her find someplace to stay or, better yet, offered to let her stay with him. Even if he was hesitant to invite her to his own home—and she felt hesitant at this idea, too—surely he must know of someone in Hastings who had a spare room. She suspected that there were plenty of spare rooms at the large house that the Lewes owned. Foyle knew people, but he hadn't even bothered to think about helping her. Something about that dinner had kept him preoccupied on their drive out that evening; he had hardly looked at her and seemed to have forgotten all about the day's events. She was upset that he had asked her to drive him, too, when there were so many other things that she needed to do that evening to sort out her life. Couldn't he have asked Milner for once? she thought pettishly. I know he only has one good leg but I think he can still use the clutch. She scolded herself for this thought: Milner was being considerate of her situation, even if Foyle was not, and he deserved a night in as much as she. Besides, he clearly was still working; it's not as if he had got off any easier. With Foyle as our boss, we never get a break, she thought resentfully.

"I suppose I'll have to stay here. Maybe somebody will give me a cell. It's funny, my father always said that I'd end up behind bars." She wished that her tone of voice could have matched the humor behind the words, but she felt worn out and very much alone. Foyle was probably eating a marvelous supper right then and sharing detective stories with the other guests, while she was scratching her head trying to figure out what to do next.

Milner had an idea.

"You can't stay here, Sam," he said, shaking his head at the idea that it had even crossed her mind. "You can come and stay with me, if you like." His delivery was matter-of-fact, to leave no doubt in her mind that this invitation was a friendly gesture and nothing more.

"Really?" Sam said. She could hardly believe that Milner, of all people, would let her stay with him, when Foyle, her boss and—what else was he? Friend? Suitor? Admirer? Whatever he was to her, he had not shown the least preoccupation about her situation.

"Just for a few days, I mean. I don't want you to get the wrong idea." Did he just wink at me? Sam thought to herself. She was already starting to get the wrong idea, but after what she had been through the night before, even a wrong idea sounded like a good one.

"My wife is away with her sister in Wales," Milner continued. Definitely the wrong idea, Sam thought. What would my father say if he knew that I was staying at a married man's house while his wife was away? Then, What would Foyle say if he knew? "I have a spare room at the back of the house," he went on. As if that would make much difference! I'm still going to be in your house! Without your wife!

Sam knew that she was about to make a very bad decision, but she didn't see any alternative, other than sleeping in the jail cell or begging Foyle to let her go back with him when she picked him up. So she tried to sound grateful and said, "Oh, but that would be really tickety-boo. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "There is one thing, though. I don't think we should mention this to Mr. Foyle."

"No, I think you're right," Sam said. This may be the wrong thing to do, but you're absolutely right about one thing: this is something that Mr. Foyle definitely does not need to know about. "I don't think he'd approve." She felt a slight twinge of guilt at the thought that she and Milner were going behind Foyle's back. But it's his own fault, she thought defiantly. He had plenty of chances today to help me find another situation. And he was so caught up in that dinner party that he didn't even think about it.

To Milner, she tried to appear thankful. "This is very, very kind of you," she said.

"Don't mention it," he said. Believe me, I won't say a word, Sam thought. Fire and brimstone couldn't pull it out of me.

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed, suddenly remembering the time. "I have to go pick Mr. Foyle up! I'll see you later? Want me to come round and get you after I leave him at his house?"

"Capital idea," Milner said. "I still have some reports to finish." It was nearly ten but he knew that it would be a late night, no matter what. And he looked forward to his chance to have Sam as his driver.

Meanwhile, Foyle was saying good-night to Elizabeth Lewes. He had dreaded finding himself alone with her a second time, but he found it was bearable as long as he could retreat to his same proper manners. She was apologizing for Paige's tactless comments about Foyle being a policeman and his son being at Oxford. It reminded him of another time—the only time—she had belittled his profession. That time, her comments had ended their relationship. He wondered why she was apologizing for Paige's behavior, when it was so similar to her own. Did she regret what she had done? It didn't matter now; all of that was long ago.

But Elizabeth wouldn't let him go so easily. As he turned to slip out the door, she stopped him, saying, "Christopher, can we meet? I can call on you tomorrow afternoon."

"Why?" he asked, rather bluntly. "Is there really anything to be said?"

"Yes," she said. "So much."

Foyle's face fell. What could she want with him, now? he wondered.

"I'd like to see you," Elizabeth pleaded. "Could I? Would you be there?" She looked at him with round, beseeching eyes. He had seen this look before.

As Lewes called for his wife from the other room, Foyle muttered a reluctant "Yes." Perhaps it was better to see her once and for all, since she had her mind so set on it. He would prefer having her over to his house, instead of these furtive conversations in the foyer with her husband lurking in the background.

True to her word, Sam was waiting in the yard in the Wolseley when he came out. She was slumped down in her seat and her eyes were closed. Foyle knocked on the glass and Sam jumped up suddenly, reaching to open his door.

"Hello," she said. "Sorry, I was just sleeping a little."

"I am sure you are tired," he said, getting in to the car.

"Yes, a bit," she admitted.

"Have you found a place to stay yet?" he asked. He had been wondering about her all evening, and had finally decided that, if she didn't have anywhere to go, he would dare to suggest that she stay with him.

"Oh, yes, I'm being put up by a friend. Lucky thing, too. I thought I might have to sleep in the Wolseley tonight!"

"Good," he said. "You know, Sam, I was going to suggest that you—"

She interrupted him. "How was the dinner party?"

"The dinner party?" he repeated, a bit confused. He was about to tell her that he wanted her to stay with him, but she had foiled him. "Oh, it was interesting," he said noncommittally.

"You don't sound too interested," she said.

"Oh, well, it was a motley bunch of people, myself included. The only ones that I had met before were the Lewes, and it had been ages since I'd seen either of them."

"Hmmm," Sam said. "How do you know them?"

"Really, Sam!" Foyle responded sharply. "Must you ask me questions about every person of my acquaintance? I've lived long enough to know quite a few people in Hastings. It shouldn't surprise you that I know this barrister."

Sam was silent in response. His words were hurtful; he sounded like her boss again, and he sounded angry. She was disappointed that he still hadn't seemed very concerned about where she was staying.

"Just drive me home, Sam," he said. "It has been a long day for both of us. I don't want to say anything else that I might regret later. I'm sorry that I spoke harshly just now. There is a lot on my mind."

There's a lot on my mind, too. You, especially, Sam thought, still a bit resentful. If only you would bother to ask me what I'm thinking.

The rest of the drive to Steep Lane was painfully quiet. Foyle stared out the window as Sam concentrated on the road. It was difficult to drive with shuttered headlights and she had to be especially careful, going twice as slowly as she normally did. She thought that they would never reach Foyle's house and was relieved when she finally was able to cut the engine and stop the car in front of his doorway. Foyle paused a moment before opening the door.

"Sam—" he began."I've said something wrong, haven't I?"

"Yes," Sam said, her face flat.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she said coldly.

"Good-night, then," he said. "I'll see you here tomorrow?" She nodded without taking her eyes off of the dashboard.

Foyle put on his hat and stepped out of the car. She watched him as he walked up his steps and opened the door. Briefly, Sam put her head down on the steering wheel in frustration. She had not thought that he would take her "no" so seriously. Of course she wanted to talk to him! Part of her wanted to run after him and knock on his door, while another part of her wanted him to know just how angry she was with him.

Her pride kept her in her seat.

A minute later, she started the engine up and headed back to the station, where Milner was waiting for her.

—More to come soon, I hope! I have most of this planned out in my head.