Disclaimer: Even when we venture into the infamous "missing year" this world and all that it contains still belong to Anthony Horowitz. I just happen to spend all my spare time playing in it.
Author's Notes: This is officially my Last Banked Chapter. My husband got a new job back in his home town and while we're all super psyched to be close to his family, etc., this means that we are moving, which entails an enormous amount of planning, packing, etc. and I do not have the time to write at the moment. I feel really terrible for leaving this story (and all of you) in the lurch as a result. However, please do rest assured that I care deeply about this story and its completion, and more chapters will eventually make their appearance. Only I have no idea when. In the meantime, enjoy this latest installment and "follow" either me or this story so that you'll know as soon as there is anything new to read. And have a lovely summer everyone!
December, 1943
Before her marriage, Samantha Milner had always assumed that starting a family was a straightforward sort of business. Husbands and wives…went to bed together without taking preventive measures and, in due course, along came their babies, quite as a matter of course.
And not just husbands and wives, obviously, simply men and women, whether they were married or not when they had been intimate with each other. Nearly half of the cases that she had worked with Mr. Foyle seemed to involve adulterous affairs, people doing Things They Shouldn't, and girls getting Pregnant Without Permission. It was why Sam's own father had tried to take her back home to Lyminster just a few months after she had started working in Hastings. Thank God he'd changed his mind, or she probably wouldn't be married to dear Paul now.
But here Sam was, married for well over six months and with all of the permission in the world – to say nothing of the world's expectations – to have a baby, yet no baby was forthcoming. Sam sometimes felt, perversely, that if she and Paul hadn't behaved themselves as well as they had before their wedding, there would have been more tangible results in the baby-making department than they were getting now.
Of course simply going to bed together (and everything else that went with it) was absolutely, rapturously marvellous. Sam blushed with remembered pleasure over every sweet intimacy that she and Paul had enjoyed since their wedding. A delicious shiver slid down her back. No, there was nothing out of sorts on that end of the equation. Paul was…magnificent.
And in the meantime, there was plenty to keep her busy. Apart from keeping house, in which Paul continued to do his bit, there was Sam's new job. After turning the matter over in her mind for the better part of a week, she had decided not to return to the MTC. The bulk of Sam's memories and associations of her work with the MTC were tied too intrinsically to her work for Mr. Foyle, and it was too painful – and felt too ludicrously disloyal somehow – to contemplate driving someone else. Assuming that that old Tartar Mrs. Bradley didn't keep Sam in the inspection pit for the next six months, fiddling with temperamental engines and up to her elbows in grease.
While Sam was casting about for ideas of what to do next, Paul suggested that she call in at St. Mary's Hospital to see his old friend Edith and inquire whether there were any vacancies for a ward maid or something else that didn't require medical training. Sam had decided to give it a go, and Edith had very helpfully arranged for Sam to meet with one of the hospital administrators, one Mrs. Gillis. After a very pleasant conversation (in which Sam's work with the MTC had played a large part), Sam found herself being offered a job not as a ward maid, but as an ambulance driver. A vacancy had just opened up; one of the drivers had taken a tumble down the stairs at her home, resulting in a broken arm and a badly sprained ankle.
For the most part, the job entailed ferrying wounded soldiers who were arriving off ships returning to England for more long-term care to St. Mary's, or transferring patients from St. Mary's to one of several convalescent homes that dotted the area. Occasionally there were emergencies in Hastings, and sometimes the patients were civilian rather than military. Sam found the work somewhat dull after her three years of driving Mr. Foyle, but the other drivers were a pleasant and friendly bunch, and her hours weren't quite as long as they had been when working for the police. Most days, Sam arrived home with enough time to have dinner well in hand by the time Paul walked through the door at the end of his day.
In addition to all of this, Sam was working for Mr. Foyle again – after a fashion. A little over a month into her new role as Mrs. Milner, Sam had run across Mr. Foyle at the greengrocer's. He'd treated her to tea at a nearby shop and they got to catch each other up on the changes in their respective lives. His goddaughter Lydia had found a position as a housekeeper for a church dignitary who lived somewhere in the suburbs of London; Sam's mother had helped them get in touch with the right people. Now that Lydia and Jimmy had moved out of 31 Steep Lane, it struck Sam that her former boss was rather at a loose end (though he hadn't come straight out and said so), trying to fill his hours with making a start on his memoirs.
They'd come to a very mutually agreeable arrangement. On Saturdays, Sam spent her mornings tackling her household responsibilities. Then, after lunch, she spent several hours at Mr. Foyle's home, typing to his dictation or helping to organize his notes. Sometimes, when Mr. Foyle had spent his own mornings fishing, he invited the Milners to dinner to enjoy the catch of the day. Mr. Foyle would never let Sam help very much on these occasions; he insisted that she ought to act like his guest. She learned a lot, nevertheless, just from standing near the stove and watching what he did. And then the two men got to catch up and have a good gossip about the goings-on at the station.
Sam noticed very quickly, however, that both Paul and Mr. Foyle stuck to neutral subjects in this regard: the amusing things that Sergeant Brooke said, the men who had left the Force to join up, the successful conclusion of a case. Paul never mentioned DCS Meredith except in passing and Mr. Foyle never inquired about the man who had assumed his old job.
"The men all miss you very much, Sir," was the closest that Sam ever heard Paul come to touching on what she knew was the true state of affairs at the station.
"Good to know that people miss you," had been Mr. Foyle's reply. Sam fancied from the look in his eye that their former boss understood some of the things that Paul wasn't saying.
…
At the beginning of December, after being married for eight months, Sam had begun to suspect, then hope, that a baby might be on the way at last. One by one, the days ticked past when she knew to expect her time of the month. That was her only symptom; there was no morning sickness, no cravings of any sort, none of the other signs that she had been led to expect.
But, nevertheless, as the passing days began mounting up and Sam submitted herself for a blood test, she enjoyed a quiet sense of relief. After all, while she certainly hadn't wanted to fall pregnant on her wedding night (if she had, she supposed that the baby would be due to arrive any day – what a peculiar thought!), Sam had also assumed that something should have happened by now. She hugged the secret to herself, thinking what a lovely Christmas gift it would be for Paul, and wondering about the best way to tell him. Maybe booties? Maybe not. She wasn't a champion knitter.
Christmas was still over a fortnight away when Sam had found herself sitting with Mr. Foyle as usual, but struggling rather more than usual to concentrate. She had been feeling slightly nauseous for the past two hours. Sam was doing her best to take this as a good sign, but it was playing merry hell with her already less than stellar typing ability. Nor did she fancy repaying Mr. Foyle's many kindnesses by being sick all over his dining room furniture. Then, just as she was deciding to plead a headache and pack it in for the day, she'd bolted for the facilities with a barely articulated "Excuse me," to Mr. Foyle.
Except that Sam hadn't been sick. She'd felt a gush from the other end of her body and by the time she'd managed to get seated on the toilet, the saddle of her knickers was bright red with blood. Sam sat, numb with shock, as her nausea metamorphosed into mild cramps, feeling blood and tissue slipping from her body. Sam didn't know how long she had been sitting like this when there was a quiet tapping at the door, accompanied by Mr. Foyle's voice asking if she were alright. It was only as she struggled to find her own voice that Sam realized she was crying.
"Not…not really, Sir," she sniffed, wiping at her streaming eyes with the back of her hand.
"Sam?" his voice instantly changed from solicitous to alarmed, "What's wrong?"
"I…umm," Sam felt her face catch fire, but this didn't really seem like the time or place for prevarication, "I seem to be…bleeding. Rather a lot."
On the other side of the door, Christopher Foyle bit his lip in silent consternation. These past couple of weekends, he had observed Sam bloom (even more so than usual), as though with some delightful secret. It didn't require the full skill and intellect of a (former) DCS to deduce that Hastings would be welcoming a Baby Milner sometime near the end of the summer.
When Sam had fled, Foyle had smiled indulgently, then ambled into the kitchen to collect a glass of water and headed up the stairs. He had expected to hear sounds of retching through the bathroom door. Instead he had heard Sam hiccupping and sniffling as though fighting back tears. She said that she was bleeding. Damn.
Turning to face away from the bathroom door, he opened it a crack, ignoring Sam's startled squeak, and thrust the glass of water through the gap.
"Sip that, if you can," he said, placing the glass carefully on the tiled floor and closing the door again. He asked for the name of Sam's doctor and placed a call to the surgery. The doctor was out but would be tracked down as soon as ever could be. Then he called the station, where Sam had said that Paul was spending his afternoon, plowing through a backlog of paperwork.
Breathless and wild-eyed, Paul arrived at 31 Steep Lane before the doctor. He was directed up the stairs and knocked softly on the closed bathroom door.
"Sam, Darling? May I come in?" Hearing her murmured assent, he sidled in cautiously. Sam had arranged her skirts so as to cover herself completely. Apart from the crumpled bit of fabric around her ankles, she might have been merely sitting in a chair. Paul perched on the edge of the bathtub across from Sam and took her hand. Sam's face was tear-stained but her bout of crying seemed to have passed for the time being. "Are you alright?" he queried anxiously, "Have you been bleeding all this time? Mr. Foyle said you came up here over an hour ago. Shouldn't we take you to hospital?"
"No, not this whole time," Sam replied, reaching out and picking some lint off of her husband's sleeveless pullover. "It's mostly just a trickle really, but then every twenty minutes or so there's this gush… I'm sorry, Paul," she added hastily as she saw him blanch in horror and realized that she had been too explicit. "I'm so sorry," she repeated, beginning to tear up again, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before. I wasn't trying to keep it from you or anything horrible like that, but I'd only begun hoping these past couple of weeks and I thought how lovely it would be to tell you for Christmas once I was really sure, but now…"
"I'm not angry, Sam, not in the least," Paul hastened to reassure his wife, smoothing her hair back from her temples. She nodded, her eyes screwed shut, trying to get her tears under control. "As long as you're safe, that's all I need."
"Can you get my handbag from the dining room?" Sam asked after a few moments of silence. "I should have a spare sanitary napkin in there, I think." Paul fetched Sam's purse, then waited out on the landing.
"Mr. Foyle said that you should lie down in Andrew's old room while you're waiting for the doctor," Paul informed Sam when the door opened again, revealing Sam fully clothed and standing upright, though she looked pale and was leaning heavily against the doorframe. Sam nodded in response, then walked the few feet to Andrew's door and lay down gingerly on his bed. Paul trailed after his wife, wishing that he could carry her bodily to her destination, wondering helplessly what he ought to be doing. Spying a desk chair, Paul pulled it over to Sam's side and sat down next to her, holding one of her hands. Her other arm lay draped protectively over her abdomen.
Dr. Lawrence arrived shortly after that. He shooed Paul back downstairs to wait with Mr. Foyle, then carried out an examination. Given the events of the past few hours, it came as no surprise to Sam when the doctor confirmed that all of her symptoms were consistent with an early miscarriage, although something tightened painfully in her chest when she heard the words said aloud.
Sam listened, her mind rather blank, as Dr. Lawrence began detailing what she should do next. She should immediately present herself at a hospital if heavy bleeding persisted beyond the next couple of hours, if she developed a fever, or if she developed cramps that caused her acute pain. She should stay off her feet and rest for the next couple of weeks; he would provide a note to her employer not to expect her back until after Christmas. And she should refrain from conjugal relations for the next fortnight. Sam nodded, somewhat absently, trying to take everything in.
"I'll repeat all of these directions to your husband before I go," Dr. Lawrence concluded. "Do you have any questions?"
"This didn't happen because I was working today, did it?"
Dr. Lawrence considered the question for a moment. "You weren't charring, were you?"
"Absolutely not. I'm Mr. Foyle's secretary," Sam declared with as much dignity as she could muster. "It's just typing and dictation. During the week I drive an ambulance for St. Mary's Hospital," Sam added, in case that bit of information should prove important.
"I don't believe that either occupation would have had any bearing on today's occurrence. Sometimes these things just happen for no discernible reason."
"But…there's nothing…wrong, is there? I'll be able to start a family eventually…won't I?" Sam couldn't remember the last time she'd had such trouble forcing out the words to a question.
"How old are you, Mrs. Milner?" Dr. Lawrence asked.
"Twenty five."
"And how long have you been married?"
"Almost nine months now."
"It's still early days, my dear," the doctor said, patting her hand reassuringly, "I'm sure that by this time next year, you'll be well on your way to starting a family."
…
They took a taxi home, then Sam went straight upstairs, changed, and climbed into bed. She wasn't very hungry, but Paul persuaded her to take a little toast and tea. The hot water bottle and aspirin that he brought afterwards met with a rather more enthusiastic reception.
"Are you in a lot of pain, Sam?" Paul asked tentatively, reaching down hesitantly and brushing some hair away from Sam's temple.
"Not a lot, really," she replied. "Just a bit worse than when I get my monthly. I'm more tired than anything, I think." The heavy bleeding had stopped as abruptly as it had begun, almost as though someone had closed some sort of internal tap
"Would you prefer for me to sleep in the spare room tonight?" he inquired, mindful of the doctor's instructions.
"Don't be silly, Paul," Sam scolded gently, "The last thing I want is to be all alone." She managed a slightly wan smile. "Anyway, I know I can trust you to keep your hands within bounds. You go and get yourself something to eat while I rest a bit, then join me whenever you're ready."
Sam fell into a light doze, waking when she felt the mattress shift as Paul climbed in beside her. "Hello, Darling," she said blearily as she felt him wrap his arms around her middle. His touch was gentle and cautious. Sam covered one of his hands with her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"How are you feeling now?" he whispered.
"Rather better," Sam replied, her head clearing, "At this rate, I'll probably feel like my old self within a day. I don't know how I'll manage to rest for as long as Dr. Lawrence wants."
"But you will try, won't you, Sam?" Paul importuned, "We don't want to take any chances with your health."
"I promise to be good," she sighed in resignation, "I hate to worry you. But how are we ever going to manage?" Sam continued, her tone becoming facetious, "A whole fortnight without any…fun."
"We managed to wait a lot longer than that once upon a time," Paul smiled.
"Not since we got married, though," Sam grumbled theatrically.
"That'll be my Christmas present then," Paul countered playfully, kissing the nape of Sam's neck, "One that I'll be very much looking forward to unwrapping." They both lapsed into silence for some little while; Paul was beginning to nod off when Sam spoke again.
"I want to have children, you know," Sam announced earnestly to the darkness at large, her earlier levity gone, "Several."
"Let's start with one," Paul yawned.
"It gets lonely sometimes. Being an only child."
"Yes, I know."
"Yes, of course you do." There were so many obvious differences of temperament and background between herself and Paul that sometimes Sam forgot how much they also had in common. She imagined her husband as a boy, rattling around his house on rainy days, trying to invent something to pass the hours and wishing for someone to play with. That had been her lot often enough, growing up. "Why shouldn't we be able to start a family, Paul? In all this time?" Now Sam's voice sounded small and rather forlorn in the darkness of the room.
"We'll keep trying," Paul replied soothingly. "It will happen eventually."
"It's been nearly nine months. Enough time to create a baby and bear it. Isn't this supposed to be easy? So easy that there are girls who get in trouble just from a single time? Wasn't that why we were so careful to behave ourselves before the wedding? All those months, longing to be with each other and never letting ourselves get carried away. But we're married now. We'd be wonderful parents. You would be an amazing father. So why should this be so hard…?" Sam's voice broke on the last word and the tears came again. Paul gently tightened his embrace of Sam's middle and pressed his face against the back of her neck. She felt his warm breath on her skin, and moments later, she felt the trickle of his own tears as well. He kissed her neck where the salt drops had landed.
"You will be an incredible mother someday," Paul managed at last, his voice still thick with unshed tears. "And in the meantime, you are the most tremendous wife, and friend, and person that anyone could hope to have gracing their lives. I am so blessed, having you here with me. Absolutely nothing will ever change that."
"Thank you." The tremor in Sam's voice had lessened when she responded and she sighed deeply.
"Sam?" It was Paul's turn to break the descending silence.
"Yes, Paul?"
"The next time that you start to suspect you're in the family way…will you promise to tell me? Even if you're not certain yet?"
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before; it was a stupid idea to wait for Christmas…"
"Sam, no, it was a lovely thought. I appreciate that you wanted to surprise me. I already said, I'm not angry about that, not in the least. But…I don't want there to be any secrets between us." Memories of Jane and her packets of bicarbonate of soda flitted through Paul's mind. The whole incident and its accompanying feelings of frustration and bewilderment seemed like something that had occurred in a far-off and unreal past.
"I promise, Paul," Sam replied immediately, "No secrets."
…
When Sam woke up the next morning, after a long, dreamless night's sleep, she felt almost fully recovered from her ordeal the previous day, emotionally as well as physically. As proof, if proof were needed, she was ravenous; the rumbles issuing from her stomach were the first thing to wake Paul up the next morning. He insisted on bringing her breakfast on a tray; alongside her heaping bowl of porridge was a flat, paper-wrapped parcel.
"What's this?" she asked, fingering the package with one hand as she shoveled a spoonful into her mouth with the other.
"It was supposed to be your Christmas present," Paul replied. "Now, it's a way to guarantee that you follow doctor's orders and rest for the next few days."
With a quizzical glance at her husband, Sam ate another spoonful then unwrapped her gift. It was a book.
"Oh, Paul, how lovely!" Sam exclaimed when she had read the title, her face lighting up with pleasure, "Murder Must Advertise! Thank you so much!" And she turned her face up, inviting Paul to lean down for a kiss, which he promptly did.
After finishing her breakfast, Sam settled down to reading her book. Paul brought his Sunday paper upstairs and installed himself in an armchair to keep Sam company. They each read in companionable silence for a couple of hours. Then Sam gave a delighted bounce and glanced up at Paul.
"I'm going to make you read this when I've finished it."
"How come?"
"Because the detective's best friend is a Chief-Inspector at Scotland Yard and he puts me in mind of you."
Paul shrugged, unconvinced. "These novelists always sensationalize police work."
"Darling, aren't I married to the man who lived and breathed Bulldog Drummond when he was in school?"
"Precisely. It was completely sensationalist and didn't pretend to be anything else. Anyway, I've been out of school now for quite some time."
"But listen to this," Sam insisted, and read Paul the first page of Chapter Seven, which featured the Chief-Inspector staying late at the office while waiting for an important call and slogging his way through paperwork as he did so. "That could be you once you get a few promotions under your belt."
Paul smiled despite himself. "And do you make an appearance in that book?"
"In a manner of speaking. Chief-Inspector Parker is married to Lord Peter's sister Mary. And she gets to put her oar in when they discuss the developments of the case at hand. And she has a few good ideas."
"Is Mr. Foyle in there?" Paul asked teasingly.
"No," Sam replied, "More's the pity. But then, if he was, there wouldn't be anything left for Lord Peter to do, so it's just as well. You were right, Paul. This is going to make the next few days so much less tedious."
"You're welcome, Darling."
"There's only one problem now," Sam added, eyes dancing.
"Oh?"
"Well," she giggled, "What am I going to get for Christmas?"