Disclaimer: Foyle's War is Anthony Horowitz's baby. I know I'm prejudiced, but my own seven month old bundle of joy is considerably more cuddly.
Author's Notes: At last, at last, my incremental bits of writing in between my maternal duties have yielded a new chapter. My usual profuse thanks to my Beta, GiullietaC, for polishing things up.
May, 1945
Paul found himself extremely keyed up at Sam's latest appointment with Dr. Ziegler. It was now the beginning of May and Sam had officially passed the date by which they had been led to expect that she would have the baby. Dr. Ziegler declared both Sam and Baby in excellent health, but it was virtually impossible for him to say when the baby would actually arrive.
The examination ended with a little desultory chit-chat about baby naming. Dr. Ziegler agreed that "Christopher Milner" sounded like an excellent choice, and Sam exuded barely contained satisfaction. According to Paul, when asked if he would mind either acquiring a namesake or standing up as its godfather, Mr. Foyle had displayed another of his rare upside down smiles, then been obliged to clear his throat before voicing his formal acceptance.
"I hope Baby can hold out just a little while longer," Sam commented as Paul walked her home before heading in to the station, "Think how wonderful for him to come into a world without war." At that moment Sam felt a hard jab somewhere in the vicinity of her ribs as Baby thrust out with its foot (or perhaps its knee?) and she paused, clutching at a section of her belly. "I think he agrees with me," she added as they resumed walking.
"That would be splendid," Paul agreed, once his heart rate had evened out – this past month, his pulse always spiked in panic when Sam stopped whatever she was doing and grabbed her stomach. "Though I wish Baby weren't late; he is doing alright, isn't he?"
"Darling, Dr. Ziegler just said that everything seems perfectly in order. You heard him yourself. Baby is kicking enough for a whole team of footballers, and lots of babies go a week or two late. According to my mother, I was over a week late."
"Were you? I would have thought you'd be too eager to start exploring the world," Paul grinned in response. Sam batted his arm playfully.
"And I suppose that you were bang on time, punctual from the start?" she teased.
"I honestly have no idea," Paul conceded. For all he knew, he could have been early, late, or anywhere in between. It wasn't the sort of thing he had been interested in until the past few months, and neither of his parents were around to provide either answers or anecdotes.
"I had a letter from my mother," Sam added after she and Paul had walked in silence for a few minutes, "She says that everything is arranged. All we have to do is let them know as soon as Baby arrives, and she'll be in Hastings by the next available train with a whole suitcase full of nappies and knitted jackets."
"Good," Paul replied.
Several months before, when Sam had begun the rather daunting task of trying to gather together what the baby would need, she had been appalled to discover how many coupons would be required. Simply laying in an adequate supply of nappies would nearly exhaust what rationing would allow, and despite the fact that Baby's first six months would fall primarily during the summer, the poor child couldn't simply go around in nothing but nappies that entire time.
Sam had written a long letter of complaint to her parents, her sole intent being to vent her frustration. It never entered her head that either of her parents could magically put everything right. Her mother had written back, however, that all of Sam's baby things were still sitting in the Vicarage attic. They had been well mothballed and only wanted a good airing before being used once again.
When Sam and Paul had gone to Lyminster for Easter, Sam had spent several hours with her mother, sorting through piles of tiny sweaters and hats, some in green, some in yellow, mostly in white now faded to cream with age.
"I can't believe you kept these things all this time," Sam had commented in wonder. She was astonished that such a treasure trove of baby things had managed to survive the innumerable charity drives and jumble sales that had taken place throughout her childhood, let alone the needs imposed by wartime rationing. At least once a year, her mother had made a grand rummage through the family's wardrobes, always coming away with a handful of articles for some charity or other.
"Oh, well…" her mother had sighed in response. "You were our first child. And we always thought there would be more after you. So of course we saved everything." Except, of course, there hadn't been any others. By the time Catherine had finally given up hope of bringing any more babies into the world, Samantha had been well into her teens. She had decided, on more than one occasion, to give away all of her daughter's baby things. But each time the moment came, Catherine had found herself unable to part with these relics of Samantha's too-brief babyhood. She had at last determined to simply save them for the day that Samantha herself would become a mother, a moment that was fast approaching at long last.
"Still no word from Headquarters?" Sam asked Paul, changing the subject.
"Not yet," he sighed. Some three months earlier, Mr. Foyle had sat down with Paul to discuss the possibility of a promotion to Detective Inspector. Mr. Foyle had praised Paul's intelligence, his attention to detail, and the pains that he took over every aspect of his work. It was rare for Mr. Foyle to offer his officers praise more explicit than an emphatic 'Well done,' and Paul had tasted his superior officer's compliments for weeks afterwards.
"If it weren't for the war," Mr. Foyle had concluded, "You'd have been promoted quite some time ago as a matter of course. And I would have been very sorry to lose you. But it finally looks as though the war may be winding down at last. And by the time it does, I expect that the AC will be glad of a Detective Inspector with as much solid experience as you have."
Paul had been nearly speechless with gratitude. He had also felt no small measure of relief. He knew that he worked hard and that his efforts were appreciated by the DCS. But Paul had also wondered, from time to time, whether the loss of his leg had meant that he would be prevented from advancing in his career the way he had once imagined. Without the man-power shortage and Mr. Foyle's pull, Paul wasn't at all certain that the police force would have given a Sergeant with a prosthesis the opportunities he had enjoyed for the past five years.
So Mr. Foyle had made his recommendation, and Paul had done his studying and sat the requisite examinations. This had been months ago now. Presumably, the application was making its way through channels and being reviewed by the appropriate committees. In the interval, Mr. Foyle had made enquiries once. He had been assured that all of the paperwork had been received and was being reviewed. A rumour had also reached them that if Paul were promoted, he would likely be transferred from Hastings to Brighton. But nothing had been heard to indicate whether the promotion would be approved or rejected.
"Oh well," Sam said as they reached their door. She gave Paul a quick kiss before they parted for the day, "Perhaps there'll be some news today."
...
But there were no developments of any kind either that day or the next. The next few days were quiet – almost eerily so. Everyone was going about their business in the expectation that peace would be declared any day. With Hitler dead, the end of the war, so terribly long in coming, now appeared to be a foregone conclusion tangled up in diplomatic knots.
"That was terribly odd," Sam commented late Saturday afternoon, as she and Paul prepared dinner. Paul would have preferred that Sam let him get dinner himself while she rested, but his wife had woken up that morning full to the brim with restless energy, which she was currently dividing between getting dinner and dissecting the strange encounter they had both had on the way home from another check-up that afternoon, with Dr. Ziegler's nurse.
Walking along, they had come abreast of another couple, about their ages. Sam had recognised the woman from the waiting room at Dr. Ziegler's and addressed her by name. The woman, however, had flatly denied knowing Sam and had hurried away, towing her male companion with her.
"I know I had the name right," Sam repeated once again. "Janice…something. I remember her complaining how terribly ill she was for the first three months and how embarrassed I was when I had to say that I hadn't even been sick once."
"I remember her too," Paul added, "I never saw that man with her before, though. Do you suppose that was her husband? I don't remember him from the waiting room."
"Darling," Sam chuckled, giving Paul a quick kiss, "You do realise that husbands don't usually nursemaid their wives and unborn children on doctor's visits, don't you?" Paul looked a bit sheepish for a moment, then returned to the conundrum at hand.
"She was further along than you, wasn't she?" he queried as he began laying the table. So where had the baby been? And why had the woman been so frightened when Sam recognised her?
"You don't suppose…you don't suppose they lost the baby, do you?" Sam suggested hesitantly, one hand lying protectively against her stomach as she spoke. Paul joined Sam in front of the stove and gave her a reassuring hug. If this speculation of theirs was starting to make Sam imagine such awful things, it was probably time to set it aside and turn the conversation.
"The baby was probably being looked after by a neighbour while they got a bit of air by themselves," he said, trying to keep his tone light and inconsequential. "And that woman…"
"Janice," Sam repeated.
"Just didn't remember you." Paul hoped that Sam wouldn't start upsetting herself. But despite his best attempts to convince his wife that the encounter had simply been rather odd, Paul remembered Janice's eyes – like those belonging to a hunted animal. He'd seen women with eyes like that before. Often, they had turned out to be married to men who mistreated them. Something was decidedly out of sorts somewhere and he wished he could enquire further into the matter. Without a last name, though, he wouldn't know where to start, and it was out of the question to expect Dr. Ziegler's receptionist to divulge Janice's identity if he couldn't give a better reason than their strange encounter.
Fortunately, at this juncture, the telephone interrupted their conversation and Paul went to answer it. Sam cocked half an ear in an attempt to hear his side of the conversation, but her curiosity was mild and didn't distract her from stirring their soup.
"Who was that on the 'phone?" Sam queried when Paul re-entered the sitting room a few minutes later.
"It was Sergeant Brooke calling from the station." Paul paused and something in his voice made Sam glance up. She saw at once from her husband's face that he had bad news to share. "They need me to come in first thing tomorrow."
"What's happened?" Sam stood still and focused her attention on her husband, anxiety seeping into her chest. Paul crossed the room and stood next to her without replying immediately, which only served to intensify her worry. "Tell me what's happened, Paul," Sam added sharply, "I'm starting to imagine all sorts of horrible things." Had something awful happened to Mr. Foyle?
"Out of the frying pan, into the fire," Paul thought ruefully before beginning. "There was a murder in town today," Paul began, taking Sam's hand and focusing on their entwined fingers rather than looking in her face. It wasn't often that he was afraid to tell his wife bad news, but what if being told horrible news sent her into labour? "Someone that we both know – Dr. Ziegler." Sam gasped in shock and Paul finally looked up into eyes filling with tears.
"Dr. Ziegler – murdered?" Sam repeated faintly, her free hand rising to her lips.
"Yes."
"How?" Grief overrode the sparkling curiosity that would normally have colored her question, had the victim in question been a stranger rather than someone she knew and liked.
Paul hesitated against giving Sam all of the facts, then decided to tell her the truth. After all, what if she read an account in the paper?
"He was stabbed. Sergeant Brooke came upon him while chasing someone else."
"He was such a nice man," Sam lamented, feeling as though her insides had disappeared momentarily, leaving her hollow, "The best doctor I've ever had. It can't be because of his surname, can it?"
"I couldn't say." He and Mr. Foyle would have to explore that possibility. There had been nothing in Dr. Ziegler's appearance, voice, or manner that advertised his Austrian roots, but the Germanic name remained, and there was certainly a great deal of anti-German feeling among the population at large. "Will you be alright on your own tomorrow?" Paul asked solicitously.
"Me?" Righteous indignation was kindling and lending energy to Sam's grief. "Of course I'll be fine. You go in tomorrow and help Mr. Foyle find out who killed Dr. Ziegler. Baby and I will do very well on our own for one more day."
...
And, indeed, when Paul returned home late on Sunday afternoon, he found Sam's state of health absolutely unchanged. She had given her word before Paul left that she wouldn't do anything more strenuous than attend church and get her dinner and Sam had kept her word scrupulously, though her restless energy continued and she was longing to find an outlet for it.
"How is the case progressing?" Sam asked as they ate supper together.
Paul sighed before replying. It had been a long, slogging sort of day, though not without progress. They had traced the murder weapon to the museum where Dr. Ziegler had been serving on the Victory Day Committee – along with Mr. Foyle. Their efforts to interview the other committee members as well as the museum staff (one elderly watchman) had been delayed by the disquieting discovery that another committee member had taken his life the night before. This left them with two other committee members and a secretary, in addition to Mr. Foyle.
"Don't tell me that you're having to treat Mr. Foyle as a suspect!" Sam protested indignantly.
"No, thank goodness," Paul replied emphatically. "If anything, Mr. Foyle is more of a witness, since he saw everyone leave their last meeting and Dr. Ziegler specifically asked Mr. Foyle to meet later to talk about something important."
"Does he know what that would have been?"
"He has a guess, but nothing definite."
"So, which of the other committee members do you suspect?"
"Apart from the man who killed himself – local councilor named Griffiths – there's Major Kieffer. You'll remember him; the American officer who was in charge of building that airstrip. He was Captain Kieffer then, of course." Sam nodded her comprehension as she ate and Paul continued talking uninterruptedly. "But Mr. Foyle seems most interested in a chap on the committee who owns a hotel. Martin Longmate. Seems to make quite a habit of twisting the truth, so we're going to look at his background pretty closely and see what turns up. Mr. Foyle is planning on running up to London first thing tomorrow to track down some information."
"Do you know what he's looking for?" Sam asked. Paul shook his head.
"I came across the mysterious Janice, though," Paul added after several moments spent weighing whether or not to tell Sam this particular development.
"Did you? And who is she when she's at home?"
"Martin Longmate's personal assistant. Janice Hylton."
"Really? Curiouser and curiouser. Did you get the chance to ask her…?"
"Not then. I plan on calling on her tomorrow, if Mr. Foyle doesn't mind."
"Do you think she had something to do with Dr. Ziegler's murder?" Now Sam sounded rather sceptical.
"Well, we know that she was Dr. Ziegler's patient. And we know that she's connected to one of our principal suspects. There could easily be a connection to the murder."
"Might I come with you? When you speak to her?" Sam asked her voice hovering somewhere between hopeful and wistful. "She might like having another woman there."
"I think it might frighten her off if we both descended on her. Running into you has already put the wind up her. Anyway, you should be resting."
"I'm sick of resting!" Sam exclaimed more than a little petulantly. Then she took a calming breath, telling herself that Paul had a point. She couldn't go out on foot hunting up witnesses when she was close to ten days overdue to have a baby. And, of course, if Janice had lost her baby, the last thing she would want to see would be another woman on the cusp of giving birth. "Promise me you'll let me know what she tells you," Sam added.
Paul promised, then turned the conversation away from the case, regaling Sam with Brookie's last great adventure. Before discovering Dr. Ziegler's body, the Sergeant had been chasing a man selling flags and bunting for exorbitant prices. Brookie had been in civvies at the time, and when he'd produced his warrant card to make an arrest on the charge of profiteering, the man had cut and run leaving all of his merchandise behind him.
"Brookie didn't catch the fellow, but he brought everything back to the station. The reception desk has been decorated within an inch of its life. You would think we were expecting a visit from the Royal Family. Brightens the old place up no end."
...
Paul kept his word, returning home for lunch the next day, both to check on Sam and to tell her the progress he had made in his enquiries. He had spoken with Janice and gotten the whole story. The man with whom they had seen her walking was her husband, de-mobbed after an absence of nearly four years. The baby that she had been carrying had been fathered by Martin Longmate, in a moment of weakness that she clearly regretted. The baby – a girl – was perfectly healthy and safe, being looked after by her mother while they waited to find someone to adopt her. But Janice's husband had arrived home sooner than expected and she was worrying herself sick trying to keep him from discovering what had occurred in his absence.
When Paul asked if Janice had made any attempts to see Dr. Ziegler after Saturday's committee meeting, she admitted going to the museum in the hope of seeing Mr. Longmate for advice on the situation. But when she had arrived, neither Mr. Longmate, nor Dr. Ziegler was there.
"Does that give Mr. Longmate motive, then?" Sam asked, "For doing away with Dr. Ziegler?"
"Perhaps," Paul replied, though he thought it sounded a trifle thin as motives went. Then again, Mr. Longmate had told himself and Mr. Foyle that he planned on running for Parliament in the next election. Longmate certainly wouldn't want it to get about that he'd fathered some woman's child while her husband was away fighting for King and Country. "It's certainly another count against him; another dirty secret and more lies. I'd better head back to the station and start writing up my report for when Mr. Foyle gets back from London."
...
Late afternoon found Sam pacing the house restlessly, unable to settle to anything. What with waiting for the baby to come, waiting for Paul's promotion to be announced, and waiting for the war to officially end, she felt like a cat on hot bricks. She had been experiencing mild cramps every half hour since shortly after Paul had returned to the station, so perhaps Baby was finally starting to think seriously about making his grand entrance. However, while the pains came and went with a clock-like regularity, they really didn't hurt in the least – she remembered any number of occasions when she had experienced far worse pain during her regular monthlies. If this was the beginning of labour, it was probably going to be the sort that dragged on for days…
When the post arrived, Sam fell upon the handful of envelopes eagerly, desperate for a distraction. Without even registering the nature of the other items, she immediately homed in on a letter addressed to Paul, its paper thick and official – gravitas made concrete. Sam stared down at the letter in an agony of indecision. She couldn't possibly open an official letter that wasn't addressed to her. And, assuming that it contained what it ought to contain, Paul deserved to be the first one to read its contents. But – with a tortured glance at the clock – he wasn't due home for a couple of hours yet, and Sam felt sure that she would absolutely die of curiosity if she had to remain waiting at home that long.
It was such a lovely day, and the station wasn't that far away (and mostly downhill, really), so Sam decided to walk over and deliver it herself. She could see how Brookie had done up the station as well. It felt good to be out in the sunshine and fresh air, to be moving with purpose. As she made her way down to the station (her pace quickening despite her best intentions), Sam admired the bunting that had been strung from buildings. All of Hastings seemed festooned with them; the splashes of bright colours gave the whole town a wonderful, festive atmosphere. Now if only the silly Ministry would announce the end of the war and let everyone get on with their celebrating!
A street away from the station, Sam caught sight of a bevy of uniformed officers leaving the building. She waved excitedly to Brookie, but he didn't appear to notice her. As she mounted the steps and prepared to open the station door, Sam realized that the combined exertion and excitement had made her a bit breathless and she paused to gulp some air before hurrying inside. She saw Paul and Mr. Foyle as soon as she was fairly in the building and her heart began beating madly in anticipation of being the bearer of good news.
"Paul," Sam called out breathlessly, waving the letter aloft, "It's here." Both men turned, a little surprised to see her, but Paul's own suppressed suspense over the state of his career won out over his customary solicitude for Sam's well-being. She had been just a trifle worried that he would chide her for exerting herself, but Paul didn't make the slightest allusion to her pregnancy, he just reached out, slightly hesitant, and plucked the envelope from Sam's hand, then stood for a moment, simply staring at it.
"I should open it," observed Mr. Foyle. He watched his Sergeant take care as he opened the envelope and scanned the letter it contained. Sam was looking on eagerly, chewing on her thumb as an outlet for her nervous excitement. Paul looked up at his boss, then at Sam, and a grin split his face.
"I've got it," he announced.
"Darling…" Sam exclaimed, and threw her arms around her husband.
"Sir," Paul added, extricating himself from Sam's arms and turning back to the DCS, "Thank you."
"Congratulations." He was about to head for his office when there was a sudden, pained exclamation from Sam. Both men turned towards where she stood, clutching her stomach.
"Sam?" Paul said taking a step towards her.
"I came here at such a pace, I…" This wasn't the type of cramping she'd been experiencing throughout the day. This actually hurt. Quite a lot. "Paul," Sam gasped in panic, "I think it's coming." There was a blank pause.
"Chair," was the first word out of Paul's mouth as he looked around the de-nuded station that Brookie had been packing up all of last week. He spotted a stack of chairs in a corner and hauled one out.
"Get Brooke back, will you," Mr. Foyle ordered the constable standing behind the front desk; the young man had run out clearly panicked by the urgency of his errand. Paul and the DCS guided Sam into the chair, where she sat, breathing heavily.
"What's the hospital number?" Mr. Foyle asked, heading for the telephone
"383," Paul replied automatically, doing his best to swallow his own rising panic and focus on remaining calm and taking care of Sam.
"I'm sorry, Paul," Sam fought back tears and tried to take deep, steadying breaths as the pain receded. This wasn't what she had intended in the least and Sam cursed herself for having left the house.
"Don't worry," he replied as soothingly as he could manage, patting Sam's back.
"Missed him, sir," the constable reported contritely, re-entering the room.
"Never mind, thank you," the DCS dismissed him with a nod, and the constable re-took his post behind the front desk of the nearly deserted station with the air of one barricading himself against approaching rioters.
"You'd better ring for an ambulance, Darling," Sam gasped, trying her best to be practical. "Or maybe a taxi…" Her voiced died away in a high-pitched squeak as another wave of pain rode over her and she leaned forward, missing the look of agonized frustration that crossed Paul's face. For the first time in years, he felt the physical restrictions imposed on him by his prosthetic and resented them bitterly. This was the moment when Sam needed him the most and he couldn't help her in the most obvious and practical way; he couldn't drive her to the hospital himself the way any other husband would be able to do.
Sam missed the look that crossed her husband's face as he bent over her, offering what support and comfort he could, but Christopher Foyle saw it and inferred the younger man's thoughts. He had placed one call to the hospital, but the line was engaged. He held the telephone receiver in his hand, ready to try placing another call to the hospital, but he hesitated, mental gears whirring as he watched Sam trying to catch her breath as her last contraction receded. Reaching a decision, he hung up the phone with a decisive click and grabbed a set of keys from the wall behind the front desk.
"Both of you, come with me," he ordered, marching purposefully out of the station towards the parked Wolseleys.
"But who's going to do the driving?" Sam gasped as Paul helped haul her upright. "I can't…drive." Paul thought Sam sounded close to tears, though he couldn't tell whether the cause were her labour pains or an intense frustration of her own over her current inability to exercise the one skill that neither he nor the DCS possessed.
"I will," Mr. Foyle announced matter-of-factly, as he slid behind the wheel, then turned slightly, watching as Paul maneuvered Sam into the back seat and climbed in beside her. As soon as the car door closed, he turned the key to the ignition and shifted gears, pulling away from the station towards the hospital.
Another contraction temporarily robbed Sam of her ability to speak, but as soon as she had regained her breath, she sputtered, utterly bewildered, "But I thought you couldn't drive. Are you telling me that all these years…."
"Well, I've never actually ever at any time said that I couldn't drive," the DCS replied, flicking his eyes to the rear-view mirror in order to look at Sam huddled in the backseat. "I just prefer not to."
"So…you never really needed me." Shock colored Sam's voice; her expression bore the profound disillusion of a child who had just been abruptly informed that there was no Father Christmas.
"I wouldn't say that," Mr. Foyle began, but Sam cut him off before he could go further.
"Well what would you say then?" she burst out passionately, "All this time – years – I thought that I was helping, doing something important. And you've just been humoring me all this time, haven't you? Letting me pretend to be useful. Laughing at me up your sleeve, you, you horrible… you insufferable – did you know that Mr. Foyle could drive?" Sam demanded, rounding on Paul.
"No," Paul rushed to reassure his wife, his surprise at the DCS' skill behind the wheel of the Wolesley completely surpassed by Sam's transformation from sunny, even-tempered, unflappable young woman into one of the Furies. He assumed that the worst of her tirade could be chalked up to labour pains, but he nonetheless hoped to avoid becoming a target of her rage himself.
Whatever Sam might have meant to say next was swallowed by another contraction. By the time it had receded, they had arrived at St. Mary's. Sam glared tearfully at Mr. Foyle as she clambered out with Paul's assistance, then turned away.
Christopher Foyle watched from behind the wheel as Paul and a uniformed nurse helped Sam up the hospital steps and disappeared inside. He sighed as he changed gears and began the journey back to the station, Sam's wounded invective continuing to echo inside his head. His sole motive in driving Sam to the hospital just now had been a desire to help where help was needed. Perhaps he had also seen it as a way to partially repay Sam for all of her hours spent behind the wheel while driving him hither and thither.
He certainly hadn't expected her to take the revelation as a personal betrayal. Hopefully, once she was thinking clearly once more, she would realize that his ability to drive in no way precluded his appreciation of her years of hard work and dedication. He wondered if she would ever give him the opportunity to explain the fact that he never exercised a skill that he did, in fact, possess.
Some men enjoyed driving for its own sake, found pleasure in navigating roads and adventure in travel. He had never been such a man; he enjoyed seeing new sights or meeting new people, but to him, driving had only been a way to get from one destination to the next. The between part held no romance for him, only tedium and the necessity of close concentration, occasionally punctured by moments of anxiety or brief terror when difficult bits of traffic had to be negotiated or accidents were narrowly, sometimes miraculously avoided.
Having a driver was one of the few luxuries in which he had ever indulged himself at work; it was the only professional perquisite he had ever insisted on. And once the war had begun, the fact that finding him a driver had been a small, mosquito-like irritation to the parade of Colonel Blimps who had served as Assistant Commissioners had been a little bonus for his frustration at being stuck on the civilian side of things. Christopher Foyle was far from being a petty man, but he was human, and he had allowed himself that one small act of will.
And if his conscience ever gave him occasional twinges over this lie of omission (which was quite rarely) he felt that he was more than justified since not driving preserved his energies and his faculties for other things. He mulled over information while staring at the passing scenery, sometimes he looked over files on longer rides. No, he had never regretted keeping himself out of the driver's seat.
And in the end, it had given him these years of friendship with Sam, an unmistakable blessing throughout these long, dark years of war. The DCS sighed as he parked the Wolseley in its spot near the station and returned the key to the wall behind the front desk, then allowed himself a wry smile. He hoped that Sam would become reconciled to his revelation sooner rather than later – he had been quite looking forward to being a godfather and being able to claim a namesake.
...
The pain was unbearable, and even when it receded somewhat, it was back again before Sam could catch her breath properly. Even though there was a clock in the room, she wasn't really aware of how much time had passed since they'd arrived at the hospital. There was a nurse who bathed her face and gave her occasional (very small) sips of water and frequent words of encouragement, as well as a very stern admonishment not to hold her breath under any circumstances. Though unaware of the precise time, Sam observed the light coming in through the window grow progressively dimmer.
Then, overriding the pain, Sam became aware of an instinctual, overwhelming physical compulsion to push. When Sam had read about childbirth, trying to imagine what the experience would be like, she had always assumed that pushing was an act of will and energy, but it seemed to be no such thing. She had never felt so little in control of her own body, it seemed to have turned into a clockwork toy that followed its own course while her brain functioned as a bewildered spectator.
At this point, more white gowned figures had joined the original nurse. Sam followed their directions, taking deep breaths at one person's command, panting at another's. She was warned not to push too hard or too fast, instructions that Sam fought to obey, though it felt as unnatural as trying to push a river back to its source. She wanted to scream, but managed to bite it back.
And then, suddenly, a shock of blessed relief followed moments later by a high, thin scream not her own. She could breathe properly. The pain that remained was manageable. Sam collapsed back against her hospital bed.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Milner," a nurse said to her, "You have a beautiful, healthy little girl."
A girl? Sam felt a second of dismayed surprise which evaporated in the next instant in a flood of joy to be meeting her baby at long last. She took the mewling bundle gingerly, marveling that this tiny creature could be the same one she had felt kicking inside of her for all these months past.
"Hello," Sam whispered. "Hello Little Miss. What a clever thing you were to trick us all into thinking you would be a boy." Sam gave a delighted little laugh. Everyone she had met during her pregnancy, without exception, had assured her that she must be having a boy, from total strangers queuing at the shops, to acquaintances at church, to the nurse at Dr. Ziegler's. They all said that they could tell from the way she carried the baby. And the fact that she had never been sick. And a dozen other silly reasons, to the point that she and Paul had never even seriously considered that they might not be having a boy. How ridiculously silly and short-sighted of them all. And what a joke on everyone to be proven wrong!
"But don't worry in the least, Darling," Sam cooed as her daughter's face momentarily screwed up as though in indignation, then relaxed, "I couldn't be happier to have you here just as you are. And I know your Daddy will feel just the same."
It was over an hour until someone finally escorted Paul to Sam's bedside. By then, yet another nurse had sponged away any lingering traces of sweat and blood, run a brush through Sam's hair, and helped her change into a fresh nightgown. Sam felt exhausted, yet strangely not in the least sleepy.
Paul thought that he had never seen his wife look more radiant. As he neared Sam's bedside, a quip that Brookie had made close to a week ago in anticipation of the day's events echoed momentarily in Paul's head: DI and a Dad; not bad for a day's work. Although in this case, of course, it was Sam who had done all of the real work. He'd simply alternated between pacing the length and breadth of the waiting area or sitting in one of the rather hard chairs with which it had been furnished. Watching the minutes tick by slowly, hoping that Sam was managing somehow.
She seemed to have managed superlatively, as she always did. She looked a little tired, to be sure, but otherwise Sam appeared to be quite her usual self once more, cheery and blooming. He sat down in the chair by her bed and leaned in to look at their daughter.
"I can't believe she's really ours," were his first words as he reached out tentatively to stroke their daughter's cheek. He had never felt anything so soft.
"I think she looks like you," Sam said, stroking the dark, downy fuzz that covered their baby's head.
"She's much too beautiful for that," Paul scoffed mildly, still lost in awe of the tiny person they were both worshipping.
"Were you surprised? When they told you?" Sam asked.
"Just for a moment. But I couldn't be happier with everything just as it is."
Before much more could be said, a nurse interrupted their conversation, informing them that it was close to two in the morning.
"Your wife should really get some sleep, Mr. Milner, and so should you. Come back first thing tomorrow, when visiting hours begin." Reluctantly, Sam and Paul said goodnight, and then he went home, feeling as though he were floating on air.
...
"And how are we feeling today, Mrs. Milner?" a nurse queried briskly, stopping by Sam's bedside on her early morning rounds.
Despite getting a mere three hours of sleep, Sam felt as fit as the proverbial fiddle. "All present and correct," Sam replied with automatic cheerfulness, then felt herself blushing furiously as memories of her tirade against Mr. Foyle rushed back upon her. By the time her temperature and blood pressure had been checked and noted, Sam had managed to gather her courage and asked the nurse, "Is it…usual for women to feel as if they should apologise for…anything they said or did while they were in labour?"
"Mrs. Milner," the nurse began reassuringly, "There's no need for you to be embarrassed over anything that happened while you were bringing your little one into the world. We doctors and nurses have pretty much seen it all, there's very little that can shock us."
"I didn't mean…" Sam felt herself becoming flustered again as she tried to make herself understood. "It was in the car on the way to the hospital. I said some things…quite uncalled for."
"Bless you, Mrs. Milner," the nurse smiled indulgently, "Any husband worth his salt knows better than that. Whatever you might have said, Mr. Milner will know you didn't really mean it. I'm sure he's quite forgotten it by now." Sam managed a tight smile for the nurse and bided her time until Paul arrived at the earliest possible time to see her and the baby.
"I spoke to your parents first thing this morning," he said, kissing Sam's cheek lightly. "How are both my girls this morning?" he added, peering down into their daughter's cot, where she lay sleeping peacefully.
"We're both quite well," Sam said. Then, taking a deep breath, she asked, her voice tiny and terrified, "Paul…while Mr. Foyle was driving all of us to St. Mary's… Did I…did I call him an insufferable so-and-so?"
Paul managed to keep a straight face only with the greatest difficulty. Sam looked as horrified and ashamed as though she had just confessed to a crime of the deepest dye.
"You didn't get past 'insufferable,'" he managed to assure his wife gravely. Sam gave a great gulp of relief, feeling her cheeks burning.
"Oh, Thank Heavens. Are you going to the station today? Can you apologise to him for me? Tell him I didn't mean any of it, not really."
"Of course, Sam," Paul reassured her, gently taking her hand in his.
"And that we still want him to be godfather, of course. If he's still willing."
"Sam," Paul interrupted, squeezing her hand firmly, "I'm sure that Mr. Foyle isn't going to hold any grudges." Sam had sounded close to tears, and now she nodded mutely. Paul waited as Sam took a few deep, steadying breaths.
"It was just…such a shock," Sam ventured at last, "About his being able to drive. On top of everything else. Why on earth do you suppose he let everyone think…?"
"I don't know," Paul shrugged. "We'll probably never know. But, Sam, you do realise that this doesn't really change anything, don't you? You were the one behind the wheel for all those years. No one can ever take that away from you."
"I know." Their daughter began stirring, twisting about in her swaddlings and gurgling. Both parents halted their conversation and watched her in awe.
"We need a new name for her," Paul said.
"I know," Sam replied. "I was thinking about that last night. And I have just the thing."
...
When Paul entered the station, he found himself immediately surrounded by nearly all of the men currently attached to the Hastings Constabulary. Everyone shook his hand and clapped him on the back, offering him congratulations on the new arrival. Brookie produced a bottle of champagne which he jovially proclaimed had been found in the evidence room, all of its tags conveniently lost. All of the station's drinking receptacles – mostly the chipped mugs usually used for drinking tea – were pressed into service for every man present to have a taste. With the bunting liberally festooning every square inch of the room and the flowing champagne, there was an air of expectant euphoria as everyone waited for the official announcement that would end the war. Paul wished that Sam could have been there too.
When Mr. Foyle came upon the scene and had accepted some of Brookie's champagne, Paul told him of the baby's safe arrival.
"It's a girl, Sir," he grinned. Mr. Foyle beamed back happily at his former Sergeant.
"And how is Sam?" Mr. Foyle enquired.
"Very well. She asked me to apologise for her behavior yesterday."
"Think nothing of it."
"She hopes you'll still be willing to be godfather."
"Absolutely," Mr. Foyle replied emphatically. "And what will her name be?"
The smile on Paul's face already stretched from ear to ear, but it seemed to grow just a little wider as he replied, "Christine. Sam insisted. And I quite agree."
There was a moment or two of surprised silence, then Mr. Foyle cleared his throat. "Well, that's… Thank you both. Honoured."
Their conversation was interrupted by the long-awaited announcement coming over the wireless. Prime Minister Churchill's gravelly, resonant voice filled the room, each consonant and syllable rolling weightily into the suddenly silent room. Each man stood listening with rapt attention as they were informed of Germany's unconditional surrender. The silence was absolute and persisted for several moments when the announcement had finished.
Sounds of muted celebration began to drift in from the street outside. With a few words of congratulations and farewell to Paul and Mr. Foyle, Brookie shepherded the bulk of the men outside to join in the fun.
"I'd best be getting back to the hospital to give Sam the good news," Paul said, taking a last swallow from his mug of champagne. "We'll see you at the christening, Sir, if not sooner."
"Wouldn't miss it," Mr. Foyle assured him.
...
Paul found Sam sitting up in bed, cradling Christine in her arms, her face joyous and a little dreamy.
"Did you see Mr. Foyle?"
"Yes, and all's well. He's not in the least put out about yesterday."
"Good," Sam sighed with relief.
"Brookie sent this for the baby," Paul added, bringing a small flag out of his pocket and holding it out. "Did you hear the announcement?" he asked, as Sam reached out and accepted the gift.
"Yes. There's a wireless in the ward," Sam said, pointing to a corner of the room by the nurse's desk. "It's finally over. I can hardly believe it." It had been so strange to hear Mr. Churchill's words. They were so brief, yet they marked the abrupt end of such a long, dark period. Sam remembered life from before the war, but it held such a dream-like quality. And now, she supposed, the dangers and privations of the past six years would seem equally unreal to her daughter. This baby in her arms would, God Willing, never know of a world at war except through the stories they would tell her someday.
"Hello, Christine," Sam cooed as her daughter looked around the room, rosy face contorted in baleful scepticism, "Hello, Sweetness." Sam waved the Union Jack in front of the baby's face, letting one edge tickle the infant's nose. "Aren't you a lucky little girl," Sam continued, feeling tears prick the back of her eyes, "You've got the most wonderful present for your birthday – an unconditional German surrender."
More Author's Notes: Anyone remember the story I told waaaay back in Chapter 7 about my paternal grandparents, Jack and Hannah? They were married at the end of July, 1944 and Hannah conceived almost immediately, which put her on the same obstetrical course as Edith in "All Clear." She gave birth to twins on May 1, 1945. When President Franklin Delano Roosevelt died on April 12, 1945, Jack was afraid that the shock of the news would send Hannah into labour.
On a much more recent note, my husband and I decided to go old-school with our second child and not find out its' gender in advance. For some reason, everyone thought we were having a girl. For no discernible reason. Total strangers, relatives, and friends were all convinced that our baby was a girl. We remained steadfastly neutral on the subject. We had a boy. It is much funnier for everyone to be proven wrong than for everyone to be proven right.