Disclaimer: I do not own "Foyle's War" and never have.
Author's Notes: This chapter is shorter than usual, but I hope you will all find it sweet as well. As ever, thanks to my Beta, GiulliettaC, for her time and her eagle eyes.
September, 1944
"I'm off to bed," Sam announced, heaving herself off of the sofa. "I can barely keep my eyes open." Paul glanced at his watch, then blinked in surprise. It was barely eight o'clock.
"Are you all right?" he asked, following his wife out of the sitting room and up the stairs.
"I'm fine, Paul." Sam yawned hugely at the door of their room. "I just need an early night. I'm sure I'll be right as rain tomorrow."
"Didn't you have an early night yesterday too?" She had been fast asleep when he had climbed into bed the previous evening. Paul stood in the doorway of their room as Sam began removing her shoes and stockings. Sam paused and tried to remember. Come to think of it, this was the third night in a row that she had experienced this sort of prostrating exhaustion shortly after supper. Paul left the doorway and sat down on the bed next to Sam, peering at her anxiously. "Do you think you might be sickening for something? Shall I get you some aspirin?"
"Oh, no need for that," Sam declared, unbuttoning her blouse, "I don't feel sick at all. Just all in." She stood and draped her blouse across a chair, then removed her skirt. Paul remained seated on the bed, following Sam with his eyes as she stood by the vanity in her full slip and began removing her hairpins, freeing her beautiful curls from the orderliness of her working coiffure. Sam felt her husband's eyes continue to focus on her and she turned to meet his gaze. "What is it, Paul?" she asked, sensing that he had something else that he wanted to say.
"Only…are you finding it too much? Being back with the police? Do you think it's taking too much out of you?" He hadn't objected in the least to Sam's returning to work at the station – though he'd be lying if he said that he didn't miss walking through the door at the end of the day to a hot supper ready to come out of the oven. It had been obvious from the start how much Sam had missed her work with the police, and when Mr. Foyle returning to his old post created an opening for Sam's return as well, it had been obvious that she should pursue the opportunity. That had been over four months ago, and by and large it had been a lovely experience, the sort of thing they had both imagined before their marriage. But if being back with the Hastings constabulary was beginning to take this kind of physical toll on Sam, Paul was willing to risk the wrath he knew his question would provoke.
"Absolutely not!" Sam exclaimed indignantly, feeling a slight surge of defensive adrenaline. "I've been back for months now and I've been feeling perfectly all right. I feel fine now – just tired. It's the end of the day. I'm not tired during the day. My appetite is healthy. I can't wait until rationing ends," she added, stamping her foot in frustration, "I was famished all morning. I could have done with a second breakfast around ten."
Paul heaved himself off of the bed and wrapped Sam in a warm embrace. "You always have had enough appetite for two people," he smiled, burying his face in her hair, and missing the peculiar expression that crossed Sam's face.
"Darling, could you get me a glass of water?" Sam asked when they let go of each other, "Maybe I will have an aspirin after all."
When Paul returned with the water and the pills, he found Sam perched on the edge of their bed, leafing through her pocket diary, looking simultaneously pleased and anxious.
"Sam? Is something wrong?"
"I… Well…," Sam sounded uncharacteristically flustered. "It seems that I'm late for my monthly." There was a long pause while Paul, his mind suddenly blank, searched for the right words with which to respond to this news.
"How late?" he finally managed, then cleared his throat, which had gone dry.
"Nearly four weeks." Sam felt herself flushing with something akin to embarrassment; spoken aloud, four weeks sounded like a long time not to notice the absence of a fairly regular occurrence. But after their disappointment just before Christmas, she had stopped keeping a careful check of the calendar, the renewal of monthly hopes and expectations was too much to bear. Sam had, however, remained faithful in recording the actual dates when her monthlies began.
"Really? That much?" Paul didn't dare show the full scope of the eagerness he felt, schooling his features into neutrality, though it was impossible to keep some degree of hope and happiness out of his voice. Sam had only been two weeks late for her monthly when she had miscarried in December.
"I'd…I suppose I'd better see the doctor first thing tomorrow," Sam concluded, trying to sound casual and matter of fact. "Tell…tell Mr. Foyle I had to see the dentist, won't you?"
...
Sam came into work two hours late the next morning. When he himself had arrived at work, Paul had dutifully informed Sergeant Brooke that Sam had gone to see the dentist, and Brookie had gone to collect Mr. Foyle at his usual time. No one, including Mr. Foyle, had commented on Sam's tardiness beyond a few sympathetic inquiries, usually followed by personal anecdotes related to the speaker's own dental tribulations.
It was impossible for Sam and Paul to discuss how Sam had really spent her morning until they had left the station for the day and were wending their way home together arm in arm.
"What did Dr. Lawrence say?" Paul asked once the station and the possibility of being overheard were behind them.
"I didn't see Dr. Lawrence," Sam replied, "It seems that he retired at the end of January and a new fellow from London has taken over his practice."
"Oh? Who did you see, then?"
"Dr. Ziegler. Henry Ziegler."
"A refugee?" Paul queried, sidetracked from the subject at hand by his surprise at hearing such a foreign-sounding surname.
"Couldn't have been," Sam replied briskly, "There wasn't the least trace of a foreign accent. If you ever meet him you'll see for yourself. Anyway, he was terribly nice. Of course, he couldn't tell me anything one way or the other, but he said that everything I described sounded quite encouraging." Sam lowered her voice before continuing to describe her experiences and Paul inclined his head towards hers as she began speaking again. "He had me use the lav and give him a specimen. He's going to run a rabbit test and he should have the results in about a week."
"That's good. Right?" It would be good to know something definite.
"Yes, it will be good to know," Sam agreed, "Though every time I think about it, I feel rather rotten about the whole test."
"Oh?"
"I really don't know which makes me feel worse – the idea that some poor little rabbit has to die on my account, or the thought that, since it is going to die, I can't be the one to eat it!" Though there wasn't the least trace of levity or irony in Sam's words, despite himself and despite the fact that they were still in public, Paul burst into an almost uncharacteristic shout of laughter. Sam swatted her husband's arm playfully. "I know it makes me sound positively bloodthirsty, but I've been thinking of jugged hare all day – Uncle Aubrey's old housekeeper used to do the most delectable things with rabbits and the memories have been absolutely torturing me."
"Apart from you being tortured by rabbits and visa versa, did the doctor have anything else to say?"
"Just that for the time being, I'm to give full rein to whatever my body is telling me to do – within reason of course. Rest when I'm tired and eat when I'm hungry. If I can find anything to eat," Sam pouted in frustration, "Though I suppose there's always potatoes…"
"I thought women usually…felt sick, at this point," Paul ventured cautiously, determinedly shoving images of bicarbonate of soda out of his mind.
"Yes, so did I," Sam grinned, "Dr. Ziegler said that increased appetite isn't such an uncommon sign either. Trust me to be one of the ones who reacts by becoming hungrier."
"What about work?" was Paul's next question, "Driving I mean. Is it safe? I mean if you are…?
"I asked him very particularly about whether or not it was safe to drive," came Sam's immediate answer, "and Dr. Ziegler said there was no danger whatsoever, provided that I stay behind the wheel and don't try to push the car if it breaks down or gets stuck in the mud. I asked Dr. Lawrence the same question – back in December – and he said that driving the St. Mary's ambulance hadn't…caused anything."
Paul detached his arm from Sam's and gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "So in the meantime we just…carry on as usual?"
"More or less. At this stage – if there is a stage – there's nothing to be done one way or the other. And nothing to avoid doing either," Sam added with a sly smile, whose meaning was not lost on Paul.
"You asked the doctor about…?" He felt himself blushing, unable to finish the sentence.
"Well, why ever not?" Sam retorted impishly, "Considering the reason for my visit in the first place…"
...
The ensuing week, despite their mutual resolution to carry on as usual, was a somewhat tense and nervy one. Outwardly, there were only two real changes to their routine. The first lay in the fact that Sam began baking a few jacket potatoes every evening, which she brought with her to work and consumed discreetly in the lav when she found herself ravenous in the late mornings. The second was Paul's insistence that he do all the after-dinner washing up without Sam's assistance. From time to time, they were each conscious of a walking-on-eggshells feeling between them, despite their best efforts to ignore the limbo in which their hopes had been placed.
When the week of waiting was up, Sam left work early to meet Dr. Ziegler and to hear the results of her rabbit test. She told everyone else at the station that she needed to return to the dentist for a follow-up examination. Both Brookie and Mr. Foyle expressed their sympathies, but neither man questioned Sam's assertion.
Paul spent the last hour of his work day divided between watching the clock and doing his best to concentrate on his paperwork. When knocking-off time finally arrived, he hurried home, arriving at their front door somewhat out of breath. He took a minute to steady himself, inhaling several large gulps of air before finally opening the door and walking inside. At the noise of his entrance, Sam immediately materialised in the doorway.
"Well?" he asked, though the beam of barely suppressed excitement on Sam's face immediately told him what he needed to know.
"It…seems I've sprouted," Sam smiled, closing the distance between them and reaching up to give him a kiss.
"Sprouted?" Paul knew exactly what Sam meant to say, although he'd never encountered this particular euphemism before.
"Well…" Sam hesitated and Paul watched as she blushed up to the roots of her hair before continuing, somewhat bashfully, "Because it's your seed. Like it says in Scripture. And when you plant a seed, it sprouts."
Paul felt a glowing, idiotic grin steal across his face. He reached out for Sam and slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her close.
"And you've really…sprouted?" he ventured, trying to imagine his still-slim wife grown great with child. His child. Their child.
"Yes," Sam laughed.
"And when is the…harvest?" he asked, warming to the image.
"In the spring. Late April, Dr. Ziegler says. Don't you think that's a lovely time of year to come into the world? With all the flowers and the other young animals…" Paul responded to Sam's burbling enthusiasm with a kiss whose gentleness, depth, and passion seemed to momentarily transport her to their wedding night.
Several heady, intoxicating moments later, their idyll was interrupted by a particularly loud, insistent growl from Sam's stomach. After a short spell of confusion, both Sam and Paul dissolved into laughter. Once they had got control of themselves, they set about preparing dinner.
"And the icing on the cake," Sam enthused with a bounce as they sat down to eat, "Is that now I'll be getting one of those green ration books. Two eggs a week instead of one. A pint of milk a day. I almost don't know what I'll do with that much milk."
"You'll drink it all up, I should hope," Paul replied firmly. Presumably she and the baby would need every ounce.
"Maybe I'll be able to share a little with you," Sam added with a sunny smile. "For your morning tea, perhaps."
"When will you tell Mr. Foyle?" Paul asked towards the end of supper. He watched, dismayed, as Sam's buoyant mood deflated with the rapidity of a pricked balloon. "Sam? Darling? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Sam responded, batting one of her hands in front of her face as though swatting at an invisible fly. "Only…" She trailed off, momentarily lost for words, and tears welled in her eyes. "I'm so happy about the baby, truly I am. I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me that we hadn't started a family sooner." Paul reached out solicitously across the table to squeeze Sam's hand. "It's just that now, the baby also means the end of…everything else. Working for Mr. Foyle. Being his driver is the most important thing I've ever done. And the most interesting. I wish…I wish I could hold onto it all for longer." Sam rubbed impatiently at her eyes as she struggled to get herself under control.
Paul stared across the table at Sam for some little while, her hand still in his, utterly lost for words. He was reminded strongly of when Sam had been sacked by A.C. Parkins after Mr. Foyle's abrupt resignation; the first throng of words that crowded his brain were all deemed likely to upset Sam rather than to placate her. Compounding his solicitous confusion was a rather bewildering surge of guilt for having gotten Sam in the family way in the first place – despite knowing that it was something that they had both been hoping for. He pushed this feeling aside and finally decided to venture,
"You won't be able to keep it a secret for very long, you know."
"No. I know," Sam replied, withdrawing her hand from Paul's and leaning her head upon it in an attitude of wistful resignation. "And Mr. Foyle notices things so. Perhaps that's one point in favour of telling him sooner rather than later; I'll be able to actually surprise him."
The idea of taking their boss off guard in some small way seemed to cheer Sam up again; she smiled across the table at Paul. He returned the grin with interest, feeling the return of their earlier euphoric excitement. Inwardly, he sighed in relief that Sam's mood had veered round to its usual cheeriness. He had heard, anecdotally, that women in the family way were subject to sudden changes in their moods; he wondered to what extent Sam's emotions might careen about over the course of the coming months.
...
Paul didn't revert to his earlier question of when Sam would inform Mr. Foyle of the great change taking place in their lives, though he was relieved when she brought it up herself after they had both climbed into bed that night.
"I'm going to wait a few weeks yet to tell Mr. Foyle," Sam announced determinedly, "I feel so well – apart from being so hungry in the mornings – and Dr. Ziegler said that it was safe for me to keep driving."
"How many weeks did you have in mind?" Paul inquired cautiously, a little wary of upsetting Sam again. Nor was he over enthusiastic at the idea of Sam exerting herself more than necessary now that they knew she was 'sprouting.'
"Three or four," was Sam's answer. "By late October I'll be three months gone, and I've always heard people say that it's best to wait until that much time has passed before you start to let people know. By then I ought to be resigned to leaving." In the dark, Paul couldn't see Sam pouting playfully as she spoke, but he caught the nuance of her voice clearly enough – the exaggeration and bravado that his wife was projecting, woven through with a return of her earlier wistfulness. Paul responded by putting his arms around Sam's waist and drawing her close; he was relieved to feel her respond with a contented sigh as she snuggled closer.
"You're not going to be all fidgety and solicitous about my working these next few weeks, are you, Darling?" Sam murmured into the small space that lay between their heads.
"I'll do my best not to be," Paul promised, though he anticipated that this would likely prove to be something of a struggle. "When is your next appointment with Dr. Ziegler going to be?" he inquired a few moments later.
"Not for another month," Sam yawned, "I told you, there's really nothing particular to be done at this point other than allow things to take their course. And pick up my new ration book – he said that I should stop by in a few days to pick that up."
"May I come along with you sometime?"
"To the doctor?" Judging by her voice, Sam's surprise had momentarily overcome her sleepiness.
"I'd like to meet him," Paul replied earnestly. "And this is all so new… I want to know more about all of this. I want to understand it better." He was rewarded with a hearty kiss.
"You are such a Dear," Sam declared, "That sounds just lovely. I'll ask Dr. Ziegler if there are any books he can recommend for us both, and we can learn together."
Further Author's Notes: First, to preface this with more accolades for my Beta, GiulliettaC, who prodded me towards more accurate and detailed research on pregnancy testing during this period (information gleaned from Wikipedia).
The type of pregnancy tests that we use today are looking for elevated levels of a hormone called "hCG." This hormone and its link to pregnancy was discovered in the 1920s and a test developed in the early 1930s, whereby a woman's urine was injected into a female rabbit. A few days later, the rabbit would be killed and autopsied to see if any changes had taken place in the rabbit's ovaries. If they had, this indicated the presence of hCG and a positive pregnancy. Technically, the rabbit didn't have to die in order for the test to take place successfully, but it was considered a waste of time and money to go to the trouble of performing real surgery on a rabbit in order to get at the ovaries. (Apart from an episode of MASH where Radar insists that unless the surgeons ensure that his beloved pet rabbit is alive at the end of the process, he won't allow them to use it to perform the test. :0)