Disclaimer: I re-purpose a lot of dialogue from "The French Drop" in this chapter, so it is only right that I should acknowledge that "Foyle's War" and all that it contains belongs to Anthony Horowitz.
Author's Notes: I know next to nothing about bars or pubs. I am therefore indebted to my excellent Beta, GiulliettaC, for the information that a "snug" is the part of a pub with little tables and chairs.
Early February, 1941
Sam was just leaving the station for the night when she saw the light on in Paul's office. There was no good reason for him to be working this late. How often had he been doing that recently? Something was clearly wrong. Anyone could see it. Mr. Foyle, who noticed everything, of course, had actually gone so far as to mention it. Paul had brushed off the casual inquiry, but his assurances rang hollow to Sam's ears.
Sam stood in the doorway and said hello; got Paul to look up from the papers spread out in the harsh glare of his desk lamp. She was determined to get him away from that desk.
"Do you want to buy me a drink?" she asked cheekily, attempting what she hoped was an inviting smile as she put her cap back on. Thankfully, Paul got up and left the station with her without any fuss, and she steered them both towards the nearest local. They bought pints and sat at a vacant table in the snug, sipping their drinks slowly in the light and shadows of a crackling fire.
"Now, Paul," Sam began earnestly, "You're working far too hard. What's wrong, really? Please tell me."
"Jane's left again," he sighed at long last. "For good this time. We tried, but… It just wasn't working. So she's gone back to Wales." And that was it, he reflected bitterly. A few short sentences to sum up the last few miserable months, and the slough of despond in which he currently found himself. Sam looked down at her hands, searching for some appropriate words of comfort.
"It's all the war," was all she could finally find to say, "You try and go on as normal and you just…can't. It's mucking us all up. I don't know what will happen if it goes on much longer." Sam longed to add something less impersonal, but declaring that Jane was a selfish idiot didn't seem quite proper at this moment.
"There's something else," Paul added heavily, "I'm thinking of leaving Hastings."
"Oh not you too!" Sam exclaimed in despair.
"Who else?"
"Nobody." She bit her lip, annoyed with herself at having nearly let slip the secret that Mr. Foyle was working on his own transfer out of Hastings to do war work in Liverpool. Paul still seemed to be rather absorbed with his own affairs and thankfully didn't seem inclined to pursue her blunder. "Why do you want to leave?" Sam added, hoping to distract him further.
"A fresh start, I suppose." Paul's reply was weary.
"Mr. Foyle will be very disappointed in you," Sam chided gently.
"Don't mention it to him, not yet."
"I won't. Wouldn't dream of it." Oh bloody marvellous, Sam thought, two huge secrets to keep from the two people with whom she spent most of her time. "Do you know what you two need?" Sam declared, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "Something to take your mind off of things. A jolly good murder. That would do it." That finally brought a small smile to Paul's face.
Sam was of half a mind to drag Paul off to a dance hall. Music and dancing almost always helped her to feel better when she was depressed. She remembered all of the lovely dances she and Paul had shared when she had spent the week with him a few months ago. But the solemnity of the evening, the rawness and severity of Paul's dejection didn't seem quite in concert with that suggestion. So they both simply sat sipping their drinks and chatting quietly. But Sam privately resolved to invite Paul out some evening and keep him from brooding all alone at home or chaining himself to his desk.
...
Luck seemed to be on Sam's side, because she got her wish for a "jolly good murder" the very next day. Actually, it was even better than a murder: a suspicious looking suicide full of odd inconsistencies that kept all three of them busy as proverbial bees for a whole week.
The investigation even took herself and Mr. Foyle out to the vicarage of Sam's Uncle Aubrey. And while the DCS "pursued his enquiries" among the denizens of Hill House, Sam got to conduct some investigations of her own. It was all rather delightfully cloak and dagger, and Sam's own sleuthing actually bore some fruit for Mr. Foyle's case. Her joy in making a contribution, however, took a severe dent when someone sabotaged the Wolseley and she actually crashed the bloody car – to say nothing of herself and Mr. Foyle! Fortunately, the biggest casualty had been the shed into which the Wolseley had smashed.
When she and Mr. Foyle managed to get back to the vicarage, they found Paul waiting for them. He had arrived by train in the course of following another suspect…back to Hill House, as it so happened. While Mr. Foyle set about tidying away the loose ends of the case, Sam waited at the car along with Paul. He seemed happier than he had been last week; more relaxed, more himself. It was good for Paul to be properly busy, but what would he do now that the case was almost done?
"You know you can't really leave," Sam ventured, hoping that she could somehow convince him to stay.
"What do you mean?" Paul asked.
"Hastings. I mean, what would we do without you?"
"I don't know."
"We're a team, aren't we? All for one and one for all or whatever?" Sam could feel the appeal falling flat, but it seemed to put Paul in mind of something.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he said suddenly, "I have something for you." Paul opened the car door and pulled out…the onion that Sergeant Rivers had been raffling off!
"Where did you get it?" Sam gaped in shock, her eyes widening.
"I won the raffle," Paul grinned at Sam with satisfaction, savoring the sentence. It felt good for something to be going right in his life for a change; the onion seemed like a tangible symbol of hope. He tossed it playfully from hand to hand.
"Mr. Rivers?" Sam finally managed, thinking what a lovely smile Paul had.
"I thought we'd have half each," he added, holding it out to her. If the onion was a reminder of hope for better things, Paul thought, Sam was the very personification of optimism. For a moment, Sam was uncharacteristically speechless with delight and Paul felt an absurd little surge of pride that he was the cause of this phenomenon. She tossed the onion in the air herself, then she gave it a huge, smacking kiss, her mouth watering in anticipation as she breathed in the onion's scent.
"What a corker. You are a treat," Sam declared. On impulse, she reached up and gave Paul a quick peck on his cheek to thank him for his generosity. Paul blinked in momentary surprise; the whole world seemed to grow brighter with Sam's small gesture of affection. And that, he realized suddenly, was what had been missing from his interactions with Jane. In all the time since he had come home from Norway, there hadn't been an ounce of affection between them, whatever else there might or might not have been. His vaguely formed plans for leaving Hastings, which had been dwindling over the course of the week, dissolved completely.
...
After taking Mr. Foyle home, Sam collected Paul for a "council of war" over pints.
"I was thinking about what to do with that onion the whole drive back to Hastings," Sam announced.
"And what will you do with your half?" Paul asked, smiling. Since their talk the week before, he felt lighter inside, as though he had shed some particularly heavy burden. Or perhaps a better word would be looser, as though he'd allowed something to unclench and relax.
"Well, I've come up with something rather brilliant, even if I do say so," Sam began, and laid out her plan for Paul's approval. She had determined that if a half an onion would suffice to make a meal for one person, it could certainly be stretched to feed two people. Instead of using their halves separately for meals by themselves, they would pool their ration books, cook and share two meals. "And half the onion will be in each night's supper," Sam concluded, "And we each pick one of the dishes we want to make."
Paul liked the idea. They agreed to cook both meals in his kitchen; it would be much simpler than for Sam to try negotiating the use of her landlady's. Paul decided that he wanted his half of the onion to go towards a shepherd's pie, reasoning that despite rationing it shouldn't be too Herculean an effort to procure minced meat of some kind. Sam initially elected to make another coq-au-vin, although her plans changed dramatically when she actually went to the butcher's a few days later.
She flew into Paul's office clutching a paper wrapped parcel in a string bag with a look of beatific elation on her face.
"Oh, Paul, you'll never guess!" she exclaimed.
"I'm sure I won't," he replied, mystified. Sam looked as though she'd just heard that the war had ended, although that certainly couldn't be the case.
"Just, just when it was my turn in the queue, they brought out a piece of liver. Forget coq-au-vin, I'm going to make us liver and onions with mashed potatoes!" Paul grinned at Sam's gush of enthusiasm. Her effervescence always seemed to brighten the atmosphere around her and he was grateful to be the recipient of some of it. And he had to agree; her managing to procure some liver was a stroke of luck equal to if not exceeding his in winning the onion in the first place.
After work, they both went back to Paul's house and set about cooking dinner. They tossed a coin to determine who would have the dubious privilege of chopping the first half of the onion. The task fell to Sam, while Paul set about preparing the potatoes. She tried lighting a candle to counteract the onion's fumes, but it did little good. Her eyes stung and streamed, but, Paul noted, a smile remained fixed on her face throughout.
They waited until the potatoes were cooked before beginning the somewhat solemn task of frying the onions. Sam stopped talking and turned off the wireless to aid her concentration, almost afraid to take her eyes off of the skillet, lest anything start to burn. The onions began to pop and sing as they sizzled merrily away, filling the kitchen with their tantalizing fragrance.
When the onions began to brown satisfactorily, Sam directed Paul to mash the potatoes, and added the precious liver to the frying onions. She only gave the meat a few minutes on each side, remembering all too clearly her mother's comments over the years on the tendency of liver to get overcooked. Sam made up two plates, dividing the food with scrupulous care. Then she turned the wireless back on and they both sat down at the table.
"Just like old times," Sam said, thinking back to that pleasant week that she had spent in Paul's spare room. Maybe she could get him to dance a little after they had eaten. Sam was almost bouncing in anticipation of the food on her plate. They both took their first bite…and it was perfection. The liver was dense and rich in flavor, the onions sweet and tangy.
"Let's have a toast," Paul suggested, raising his glass of water, "To Sergeant Rivers and his onion."
"And to the shepherd's pie still to come!" Sam added gaily, clinking glasses.