An hour later they were lingering in the dining room (having removed his fly-tying gear to the sideboard) over the remains of the very respectable meal they had cobbled together from her provisions and what he had on hand, and enjoying the wine she had brought – a rare vintage obtained, through dedicated haggling, from a private cellar.
She amused him with the story of her negotiations with the elderly connoisseur as they tidied things away; however when they moved to the sitting room to finish their wine, the unspoken question of her accommodation clouded the atmosphere. Foyle unobtrusively drummed his fingers on his leg and then met her eyes frankly,
"Did… you want me to ring the other hotels?"
She bit her bottom lip worriedly and looked directly at him,
"They did call around for me at the Arms, but there was nothing available, I'm afraid."
"I'm not surprised, this time of year."
"If I'd known earlier the length of my leave–."
"Couldn't be helped."
"They thought they might have something on Boxing Day."
Foyle nodded and mulled over this information for a moment.
"I should perhaps mention that my son will be home on leave; I expect him Friday."
"Boxing Day. Ah."
"But I see no reason why you couldn't have his room until then. You're very welcome to it. I've billeted others in the past – I've even billeted my driver, when her landlady's house was bombed."
"Miss Stewart? And no scandal, Christopher?"
"Not that ever reached my ears. We were very discreet."
She smiled and attempted an impersonation of the younger woman,
"Jolly decent of you, sir!"
He gave a small smile.
"Well, I can't very well send you out into a snowfall on Christmas Eve, when there's no room at the inn."
His satisfaction at his little witticism was short-lived as an unexpected change passed over her features, and Foyle was taken aback at the glimpse of dull, enduring pain in her eyes. She recovered and brightened, but he couldn't let it go unremarked. He leaned forward in his chair.
"Barbara? What were you thinking of?"
She made a little dismissive wave,
"No, no; it's in the past. I don't want to spoil… the present. Speaking of which–,"
She rose abruptly and went to admire the little tree standing on the wireless cabinet. "This is sweet."
Foyle frowned, crossed the room to take her hand, and said quietly,
"You can't expect me to ignore that, Barbara. We… agreed to make a start."
"And, being a detective, you won't be content with just knowing my favourite colour, or flower, or how I take my tea…?
"N-no."
Shifting uneasily, she bowed her head to examine the lines on the palm of his hand,
"I've confided in no one, never attempted to confide in anyone… ever since my father told me I'd made my bed and would have to lie in it."
"Is it too painful to speak of?"
She looked sadly to one side,
"It's… the humiliation of it, more than the cruelty. The cruelty seemed to have nothing to do with me, but – he had a very, very clever way of finding out my little vanities and ridiculing me for them."
He put his arm around her, walked to the sofa and sat down with her; he waited until she met his eyes, and said very gently,
"Barbara, I think you should tell me about that Christmas Eve."
She looked into his eyes for a long moment, found a kind sympathy she was willing to trust, then took a deep breath and spoke on the exhalation,
"Oh, I came to dread Christmas, birthdays; almost any holiday was an excuse to drink to excess, and that brought on some tirade or other that would build and build to an explosive outburst…"
Now she focussed intently on her fingers, turning and twisting round themselves in her lap; her voice becoming very quiet,
"I found that, if he drank enough, he became incapable of pursuing me out of the house, so… if I timed it just right, I could get away before the shouting escalated to a beating…"
"Where did you go?"
"I just walked… I'd stay away until I was sure he'd passed out, and then I'd… get back into the house somehow."
"He'd lock you out of the house?"
Her answer came as a whisper,
"Sometimes."
Foyle lowered his eyes briefly, then prompted,
"Go on."
"By our third Christmas the pattern was well-established; he could go weeks, months without a drink, things would be all right, almost normal, and then something would come up to trigger another bout – some work problem, or a holiday to 'celebrate.' ...But that was a bad winter – bitterly cold, with heavy snow, and I…" she shook her head in regret,
"I'd tried all day to distract him, tease him, cajole him, anything to slow down the drinking – perhaps I should have tried the opposite – but he knew what I was doing, and he knew why."
She dashed away the tears that spilt down her cheek.
"So he threw me out of the house. He said, 'If you're so bloody fond of night walking; you'd best get on with it.' I… pleaded with him, but in the end he hurled my boots and coat at me and pushed me out the door. I had to keep walking to try to stay warm; I walked for hours, though I didn't go very far from the house. It was hard. I was seven months pregnant."
As a policeman, Foyle was used to hearing disturbing, disheartening testimony of the inhumanities suffered by victims, seen by witnesses and perpetrated by suspects. In his early years he'd wondered why the victims of such intimate violence hadn't done more to help themselves, why they hadn't rallied friends and family to come to their defense, but as he'd gained experience he'd developed a deeper understanding of the intertwined pressures of dependence, security, love and shame, and the inadequacies of the law.
But this was not one of his cases, to be followed through the court, filed away and put out of his mind.
He shifted closer to her, asking very carefully,
"There was no one you could turn to, nowhere to go?"
She shook her head,
"We were isolated, socially and… geographically. He'd seen to that – no nearby neighbours, no telephone. He didn't encourage visitors. No one knew how bad it could be – You see, he had a completely different public manner; he could be so charming – affable; that was the man I thought I had married. He was well-liked at work. He had friends, but I'd lost all of mine…"
Slowly another memory suffused her face with a warm glow,
"But then I had my beautiful son, and he was my whole life."
She suddenly turned to him with an earnest look, as if she needed to assure him on this point,
"My husband loved his son, he never thought of harming him."
Foyle held her hand, waited and asked,
"Barbara, what happened to your husband?"
She took in a long shuddering breath, and sat up straight,
"An accident. He was an engineer; he was overseeing the installation of heavy machinery in a factory; when the works were started up something exploded and he was killed. Very quick and painless, I was told. They assured me it hadn't been due to any mistake on his part. I was given a small widow's and orphan's pension, and… I began to live again. Andrew was only four at the time; he doesn't – didn't – remember his father."
Foyle dragged his fingers across his brow,
"Your son was Andrew? That's… my son's name."
She looked into his eyes with an expression of infinite sadness,
"Oh…"
He put his arms around her and they held onto each other for a long time; she seemed exhausted from the effort of talking, of disclosing this part of her story to him; Foyle murmured words of comfort,
"You got through it, Barbara; it's made you a very strong person…"
And then he rose, inspired by a new idea, and offered her his hand,
"Will you come with me – stand at the door with me a moment?"
She accepted his hand with a question in her eyes, and went with him; he opened the door onto the hushed, cold December night, stood at her back and enveloped her in the gentle strength and warmth of his arms. As they looked out together at the snow falling across the light in pretty, dancing flakes, landing silently as a blessing on the houses and transforming the drab, dark world into a pristine white, he kissed her cheek and spoke softly by her ear,
"Let this be your Christmas Eve memory from now on: our first Christmas together."
He was, again, surprised by his own words, but somehow, without having formed a definite view of the future, he felt he wanted them to be true. She wept quietly for a time to release some of the pain of her past, and then turned within his embrace, her eyes brimming with new hope. He held her and gently pushed the door closed.
As it happened, Andrew's bedroom was unoccupied that night, and so was Foyle's. Though he had carried her travel case upstairs and seen that everything was suitably tidy for his guest, they had, instead, sat up very late, sharing a little more wine. Foyle gradually became aware that Barbara was, consciously or not, monitoring his consumption, but he felt that this was not the right time to open that discussion – she would see and satisfy herself on that point.
They talked quietly by the fire, her head resting comfortably against him, and eventually drifted off into sleep together on the sofa.
Foyle woke first; he studied with tender regard his guest's features in repose, and smiled at the distant, joyful peal of church bells. Carefully he disentangled himself from her arms, substituting a pillow under her head where his shoulder had been; he built up the fire, covered her with a soft tartan blanket, and went upstairs to wash, shave and change his clothes. In the bedroom he donned one of his newer shirts, spent a full minute choosing a necktie, buttoned his waistcoat and fastened links on his shirt cuffs.
He was making tea in the kitchen when he heard her footsteps overhead and then the bathroom door close quietly. Bread and eggs were waiting to be respectively toasted and poached, when the telephone rang.
"Foyle here."
"Happy Christmas, sir!"
"Oh, yes, thanks; happy Christmas, Sam. You got home all right, then?"
"Tickety-boo, sir. The snow came down heavy overnight, though. How is it there?"
She was talking rather loudly, though the line was perfectly clear, perhaps to make up for the distance between them.
"Er, just a light dusting, far as I know – haven't opened the blackout curtain, yet."
"Oh, I see." Her voice took on that young mother-hennish quality that half-irritated, half-amused him,
"Are you all right, sir? Have you heard from Andrew?"
"No, don't expect to; he'll just turn up when he can. Look, I'm fine, Sam, in fact…" He didn't know what prompted him to divulge it,
"…a friend has just dropped in (that was a white lie, and she might be clever enough to spot his inconsistency about not yet seeing the snow this morning).
"Yes, it was a nice surprise.
"No, it's no one you know (that made two lies on Christmas morning – was there some special penance for that?)."
"Just about to have breakfast (he probably shouldn't have said that, at all)."
Foyle winced and scratched the side of his head distractedly.
"Well, that's very nice, sir. I hope you'll have a nice visit. You will go to church, won't you, sir? It's always so nice to hear the choir on Christmas morning."
"Y-yes, yes, expect I will (he hoped that would not turn out to be another lie). Thanks for calling, Sam; do give my best wishes to your mother and father."
He rang off with a sense of relief, her 'nice, nice, nice' ringing in his ears, and was fixing himself a cup of tea when Barbara appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking charming in a dress he hadn't seen before – but then he'd only seen two of her dresses before, and the first was the one she had cleverly fashioned out of parachute silk, he recalled. He set down his untasted cup and reached out a hand to her,
"Good morning! Find everything you needed?"
She came into his arms and kissed him full on the mouth, to his surprise.
"I have now… Happy Christmas, darling."
Foyle raised his eyebrows,
"Er, happy Christmas. Um, 'darling' already…? Haven't even made you breakfast yet– and it's the one meal I can do that Andrew doesn't complain about."
"Well, it wasn't your culinary skills that prompted me to come here, you know."
"No?" He felt himself smiling foolishly, but then the telephone rang again.
"Damn. Excuse me; I'll just, er… Help yourself to tea – how do you take it, by the way?" he asked with a grin over his shoulder.
She smiled back,
"Just milk; no sugar."
This time it was his sister-in-law, Mrs. Howard, in London, and her voice, too, conveyed a sympathetic concern and forced delight as to Andrew's imminent arrival to cheer his lonely holiday. Again he found himself giving out a confidence he began to feel was not his to mention.
"Yes, just dropped in this morning. No, it's no one you know. Er, – through work – a murder case, actually. Nooo, my friend didn't commit the murder; very amusing, Alice. Oh, just pass on my–. Don't have to put him on–. Hullo, Charles. Thanks; and the same to you…"
Foyle rolled his eyes heavenward and turned to see Barbara bringing him his tea. She set it by the phone, kissed his cheek and went back into the kitchen. Half-attending to the voice of his brother-in-law, he sipped his tea and monitored the sounds of cooking. When he was finally able to ring off, he found breakfast ready on the table.
"Sorry; they're worried I might be lonely." He grinned at her meaningfully and picked up his knife and fork.
"Why didn't they just invite you? Oh – they did, didn't they?"
"Y-yes, but Andrew prefers to come home, and I can't bear travelling, the train service being what it is these days, er, as you very well know, and… I would have missed… you."
"But you didn't know I was coming."
"N-no, so it's a very good thing I didn't go."
"Oh, that's quite logical." She hid a smile behind her cup.
"Yes; thank-you." Foyle hid his pleasure at the familiarity of the exchange.
They finished breakfast uninterrupted; Foyle insisted on doing the washing up and she looked on, albeit from rather close quarters. Pouring fresh tea into their cups, Barbara suggested they go into the sitting room.
But again the telephone rang.
"I'm not answering that." Foyle declared bullishly, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.
"What if it's Andrew?"
He waggled his head slightly, vacillating between annoyance and resignation and tossed the cloth down on the counter,
"Yes, yes, you're right –."
However, it wasn't his son. It was his friend, DCS Fielding of Hythe, who sounded a little drunk, which was concerning at half-past eight in the morning. Foyle promised to visit him soon, and was able to put the phone down not too long after telling another lie that his son was already home on leave from the RAF.
He met Barbara in the doorway of the kitchen and took his tea from her hand,
"Look, would you… consider coming to church with me? Get us out of the house; already told a dozen white lies this morning. Really rather not answer the telephone again."
"I seem to have put your soul in peril. Yes, of course I'll come to church."
In the sitting room, he immediately noticed the large cloth-wrapped parcel by the little Christmas tree.
"Oh. What's this?"
"It's for you. Open it."
Foyle appraised her with a mock suspicious eye and approached the task cautiously, while Barbara took down the blackout cloth and drew the curtains wide. Daylight streamed in, reflecting off the brilliant white that blanketed the street and the housetops. Having removed the wrapping, Foyle stared at the be-ribboned bottle of scotch with raised eyebrows. She came to stand beside him.
"As I recall you weren't overly keen on ginger beer. I thought you might be a single malt man. Was I right?"
"Yes, indeed. …Don't know what to say; rather extravagant of you, you know." He smiled happily.
"Well, I'm glad I was extravagant; if you're pleased, then I'm sure I'll have no regrets."
Though she had spoken lightly, there was something in her reply that put him on the alert; he turned to her, his smile fading into seriousness,
"Look, er, don't want to spoil the occasion, but, I feel I should say, Barbara, that, er, I would never do anything to cause you to regret your decision to…em…seek me out. Please put that doubt right out of your mind."
She looked up at him, somewhat taken aback,
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's understandable that you might feel a need to…er, to put me to some sort of… test."
Her mouth fell open,
"A test? You mean– the whisky?" She thought furiously for a moment,
"My god, I never even considered–. Oh, god, you're right…"
She lifted a hand to her forehead and stared into his eyes,
"I– How did you know I was thinking that… if I didn't know it?"
"Well…, I'm not just good-looking, you know…"
He'd meant it merely as a humorous remark to lighten the mood, but she continued to stare at him, nodding her head slowly,
"I realised that last April; you had me rather frightened, you know, asking all those questions –."
"You had nothing to worry about, Barbara – you hadn't murdered anyone."
"No, but it seemed you were able to work out exactly how I might have done it… I was afraid I wouldn't be able to prove my innocence. And now look – you've worked out a… a motivation I didn't even know I had!"
"Well, I'm sorry – suppose it comes with the territory."
"No, don't apologise; it's – it's startling, but… rather helpful, really." She gazed downwards, puzzling over this new insight, and then looked him in the eyes again,
"Thank-you."
Foyle took her hand, and then carefully took her into his arms.
"Well, setting all that aside; thank-you, Barbara, very much for the Christmas present; very kind of you… and much appreciated."
"Even as a test?"
"No. As a damned fine bottle of scotch!"
He grinned and she smiled and relaxed against him, resting her forehead on his neck. Impulsively she kissed him below the ear; he turned to her and they met in an unexpectedly long, sensual kiss. Somewhat overcome, he said,
"Perhaps… we'd best set off for the church."
She smiled shyly,
"Before the telephone rings… Yes."
As Foyle waited in the hall for Barbara to come down, he noticed her shoes, rather scuffed and water-stained from her long walk through the snow. He had a quick look outside at the state of the road, which was covered to nearly six inches in feathery powder that threatened to melt into a slushy mess as the sun rose higher. The muted grey overcast sky seemed undecided and could just as easily clear or darken by noon.
Bending to take note of the shoe size, he frowned consideringly, and walked slowly upstairs.
He called out,
"Barbara, have you brought winter boots?"
She answered through Andrew's bedroom door,
"Oh… No. I don't know what I was thinking when I left my lodgings."
"Ah; well, hang on…"
Foyle went into his bedroom, stooped down to feel into the back of the wardrobe, and drew out a slightly dusty box. Opening it, he took up the new, though no longer quite fashionable boots, pulled out the two wads of packing paper (he should have turned that in to the salvage boys long ago), checked the size (which he knew perfectly well), and then ran his hand over the surface of each one thoughtfully.
Outside the other bedroom door he said,
"Try these; they might do."
He left the pair on the carpet and walked downstairs to wait. Moments later he heard her descend, and turned; the sensation that ran through him at the sight of those boots coming down the steps was one of the oddest he'd ever experienced.
"Why, they fit nearly perfectly – I've only had to wear a second pair of thin socks – and they're hardly broken in!"
Then she caught sight of his face and understood.
"Are you sure, Christopher…?"
"Certainly; like you to have them. They've just been kept in a box –. Someone should get some use out of them, ...she… had only just bought them."
He turned away to retrieve her woollens and coat and then helped her into them.
tbc...