A/N: Well this it. A massive thank you to LauraRaposa for editing this entire story for me.
Thanks to everyone who took the time to review.
I hope you've enjoyed my first foray into Foyle's War fanfiction – TT-5
Chapter 20
The next day dawned bright and clear and by 10 a.m. both Foyles were in their hip waders and ankle-deep in the river. It was a perfect day for fishing and Foyle let himself relax slightly as he concentrated on carefully landing his fly on the water's surface.
Oddly, Foyle felt a bit fidgety after 20 minutes of silence. He had come to embrace the silence of the river, free from the sounds of human life and only broken by the water's babble as well as the chirps and whistles of nature. But that was when he went alone. When Andrew accompanied him, Foyle had grown accustomed to the quiet conversation that would flow between them.
After last night's interrupted slumber, Foyle was pleasantly surprised to find Andrew looking more like his old self. His body, wound tight ever since he returned home, appeared relaxed even though his father knew fly-fishing wasn't Andrew's sport of choice. I daresay it looks like he's rather enjoying himself.
Andrew felt his father's eyes on him and looked up with a smile but stayed quiet. He had never noticed how wonderfully relaxing the river was until now, and he didn't want to break the stillness that had calmed the troubled waters of his mind. Wonder if that's why Dad likes to fish so much? He watched his father cast expertly, and decided the question could wait.
With two "starter" trout in their baskets, Andrew broke their silence. "Did you fish before the war, Dad? The last war, I mean."
Foyle contemplated the question as he cast his line, "Once in a great while, but it wasn't a regular thing."
"Why did you start?"
"Your mother, mostly."
Andrew waited patiently for his father to explain.
"She, um, thought I needed to get out more," said Foyle. "She didn't like the idea of me spending all my time behind a desk. And she liked the idea of a fresh trout now and then as we were still under rationing."
He smiled faintly and expertly recast his line as he decided whether he should tell Andrew the whole truth.
I want Andrew to feel comfortable speaking with me about his service, but I'd rather not talk about what happened in France– to anyone.
He chewed on his lip for a minute and continued, "And once she heard that Dr. White had suggested it, I really had no choice whatsoever."
Andrew frowned. "Dr. White? Why would he care if you went fishing or not?"
Foyle focused on his line as he answered. "Well, I had, umm, taken some shrapnel in my shoulder, and it had, umm, weakened the muscle. White thought fishing would help build it back up again."
Andrew was shocked. He had no idea that his father had been injured during the last war. He watched as Foyle smoothly manipulated his line. There was no sign there was anything wrong with either shoulder. "Which shoulder, Dad?"
"Umm, my right."
"Ah, casting arm."
"Yup."
They lapsed back into silence as Andrew digested this new information about his father.
Hmm. Right shoulder is his casting arm and the arm you use for steering a car…
"Is that why you don't drive, Dad?" asked Andrew. "Can't steer the car and shift at the same time?"
Foyle was surprised by Andrew's question although he thought rather ruefully that he shouldn't be given that his boy was smart enough to connect the dots.
"Err, yeah."
"But why? I've never noticed your arm give you any trouble."
"It doesn't for the most part," said Foyle. "But I couldn't risk it."
Andrew frowned. "I don't follow, Dad."
Foyle sighed. "Well, you see, they didn't get all the bits out. Thought they had, but one time when I was back home…" He paused as he remembered the terror of suddenly losing feeling in his arm.
He shook his head and forced himself to continue. "One day I lost all feeling in my arm. Went to see Dr. White, and he figured that there was still a piece or two of shrapnel in there that had shifted and pinched a nerve. It only happened a few times but I didn't want to risk driving after that. Damn near crashed the car the first time it happened."
Andrew nodded distractedly. It had never occurred to him that his father might have a good reason for not driving. Dad told him and others - including his latest driver, the ever-so-perky Sam Stewart - that if he was behind the wheel he couldn't hash out the particulars of a case. So driving himself was a colossal waste of time as well as the public's money. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, so Andrew never questioned it.
But he never told anyone at the station? I know there were a few digs at his expense, but if they knew it was because of a war wound, no one would have dreamed of being so uncharitable. He's avoided talking about the war for nearly 22 years yet for me he's relived so much of it in the last few days.
Andrew suddenly had a desire to hug his father, but knew he would probably object to his recent cast being disturbed. So instead he smiled and gave him a fond look before he returned his attention to the river.
When Foyle returned from the shops later that day, he found Andrew sprawled across the settee fast asleep with a book face down on his chest. Foyle removed his hat and coat in the hallway and moved quietly to the kitchen to put the kettle on and put away the shopping.
With his teacup safely in hand, he headed back to the lounge. He put the tea down on the table by his chair and turned to study his son.
Apart from the darkish shadows under his eyes, asleep Andrew looked very much like his childhood self with his face relaxed and hair tousled. Although he now took up the whole settee, he reminded his father of the 5-year-old boy who announced one day that he was too old for naps.
"I'm a big boy now," Andrew had said as he made his case to his amused parents. Foyle grinned as he remembered that later that same afternoon he and Rosalind found their "big boy" curled up on the settee fast asleep with his storybooks scattered around him. His father, as he did many times after that day, had carried him upstairs to his bed to finish his nap.
Andrew was far too big to carried now, so Foyle settled for covering him with a blanket and leaving him to sleep. But before he returned to his chair, he dropped a kiss on his son's forehead and wished him sweet dreams – just like he did when he was 5 years old.
Foyle, seated now with his own book in his lap, knew that in three days his son would walk out the door again to re-join the war. Thankfully, Andrew would not be in the thick of things for some time, but it didn't mean his father would worry - or miss him - any less.
Andrew's time at home seemed to have helped. The despair that had frightened Foyle the first night his son was AWOL appeared to have lifted. And although he was still worn down by his wartime responsibilities, Andrew no longer seemed to be at the end of his endurance.
Before he picked up his book, Foyle turned to the framed photo of Rosalind on the table. He had thought of his beloved late wife more over the last few days than he had in many months. Foyle mused that perhaps it was because their son's troubles coincided with the anniversary of her death. Or maybe it was that every time Andrew needed his help he tried to think of what Rosalind would do or say.
I still miss you every day, my darling girl. You would be so proud of our Andrew. He is strong, brave and full of compassion. Thankfully, the war has not stolen that from him. He reminds me so much of you, Rose. I have tried to do my best in your absence. He's become a good man, and I pray that he will come back to me when this bloody business is over. Please continue to watch over him, my love, as I know you do. I don't know how I could ever survive if I lost him too.
Interrupted by the sound of muttered words from the settee, Foyle looked up and studied his son. Satisfied that Andrew was still sleeping peacefully, Christopher Foyle fingered his book, took a sip of now-tepid tea and took comfort that his son was safe at home and there was fresh trout to fry up for their dinner.
The End