Church was a rather more solemn affair than Barbara had expected on this usually joyous holiday, however given the number of black arm bands, the reading of the names of lost sons and fathers, and the prayers offered for the soldiers, sailors and airmen, for all service men and women at home and abroad, her mood quickly matched that of the congregation. There were many out-of-town visitors amongst the regulars, Christopher informed her, and she noticed that this seemed to put him more at ease. Perhaps he had had some apprehension of appearing conspicuous.
They had not planned to hang about after the service, however, when he spotted one elderly, hearty retired minister amongst a circle of well-wishers, Foyle steered her by the arm and made an effort to edge a way in to the man's side to shake his hand warmly and speak to him.
"Reverend Quinn; happy Christmas. Good to see you here today."
"Ah, Christopher, here you are! Keeping well, my boy? And who is this enchanting vision?"
Barbara smiled as Christopher introduced her and explained to her that the Reverend Quinn had served the community for over forty years, had married him and had christened his son. From a look that passed between them, it was clear that the man had provided further spiritual services as well. They exchanged pleasantries and remarked about war news, and while Foyle was distracted in returning the greetings of another couple, the minister laid his hand confidentially upon her arm and spoke quietly,
"My dear, I do hope your work will allow you to visit from time to time, and if, when you are here, you can help persuade Christopher that there are other duties – duties to the self – that are just as important as duties to one's career and country, then you will do much towards restoring his soul to the peace and happiness it deserves…"
With a sprightly wink, he added sotto voce, "I see rather a new light in his eye, my dear; I think you may be just the ticket!"
She was too surprised and delighted with his apparent endorsement to speak, and felt herself blushing; before she could respond to the kindly old gentleman, other parishioners moved in to claim his attention, but he managed to direct a smile and another wink at her as he was bustled away towards a waiting car.
She saw that Christopher had noted the high colour in her cheeks, but he did not remark upon it as he guided her out the doors and into the sunshine that had triumphed over the grey clouds of the morning. Outside they were approached by several other individuals and couples who all seemed bent on not only wishing Christopher the best of the season but learning the name of his companion.
She was pleased with the way he handled their questions, delegating to her the decision as to how much to disclose, and pleased that no one enquired very closely; in fact everyone they spoke with seemed happy just to see him out in company with a new friend.
They strolled comfortably together through the church grounds and she only realised he had a definite destination in mind when he stopped. He smiled at her and gestured upwards to the great old tree,
"Thought you might like to see this."
Uncharacteristically, she had not even noticed the magnificent specimen as they had walked, conversing easily side-by-side; now she gazed up in surprised admiration.
"It's beautiful! Platanus orientalis; the trunk must be sixteen feet around – do you know its age?"
"Well, parts of the church date back to the twelfth century, but I've heard the tree is between… two hundred fifty and three hundred years old…?"
"Yes, given the average annual growth rate for this variety that sounds about right. How marvellous! It must be lovely in summer. Thank-you for showing it to me, Christopher." In her enthusiasm she took his arm, beaming with happiness.
He studied the ground, smiling, and murmured,
"A pleasure."
Then he looked at her,
"What, er… did the Reverend Quinn say to you… to bring such colour to your cheek…?" He brushed her face tenderly with the back of his fingers.
Barbara eyed him, still smiling, but only answered with a lift of an eyebrow. They strolled on a little further so that she could take in the full majesty of the old tree's crown; she admired it silently while he took a few steps away, apparently to better admire her. When she looked towards him his attention had drifted away.
She saw his gaze had become introspective and she turned to follow his line of sight – off in the distance, up the slope of the hill, lay the low gates of the churchyard with its orderly array of gravestones. She bit her lip with the realisation that this place held other associations, other very strong emotions, for him. She wondered if he would feel able to speak to her about it. Last spring he had returned the same concise response about his history as she had given about hers – but now she had revealed much more.
She watched him deliberating over the matter, and read in his features the precise moment when he changed his mind – a slight wince of his eyes and a sad downturn of his mouth: he wasn't ready to share this with her.
As they turned back along the path together an unwanted disappointment settled over her; she couldn't ask him – to do so would alter his view of her – yet she had to concede that she feared her feelings towards him might now change… god, it was all so difficult; and tomorrow morning she must leave his home and go to the hotel…
After a pleasant enough luncheon at a cafe and a walk along the seafront they had returned to his house. By the evening he still had volunteered nothing about his marriage or his wife – she began to find it odd that he could have put such an important part of his life away, boxed it up and kept it entirely separate from his present existence. It seemed unhealthy, somehow: never to drop her name into a conversation, to mention any past incident or anecdote from their life together…
She decided she must try to force the issue – she didn't like the idea – yet it seemed necessary. If they were to reach a higher level of intimacy and confidence in each other, tonight was the best, perhaps the only opportunity before she had to return to her work. She didn't know where in the north she might be sent, and if there were no definite understanding between them when she left, then it would be that much more difficult to justify a return to Hastings on her next leave.
And now she knew just how badly she did wish to return – having made her bold move in coming here, gambling on whether the stirring of feeling she had experienced last April was at all reciprocated – her heart was now unmistakably involved.
She had never done anything like this in her life, but in these desperate times –. No, she corrected herself, it wasn't a case of desperate measures; it was a case of recognising a rare opportunity to make a connection with an exceptional man, the only man who had faced and passed through her prickly defences whole and unscathed, and who had, in his quiet, enquiring way, awoken the sympathies of the woman within.
It was the circumstances of war that had brought them into each other's company, and it was the constraints and pressures of war that dictated a rather more rushed… Did she dare think of the word 'courtship'? Perhaps not, but some sort of understanding must be achieved, one way or the other. To do that, she needed to know the story of his wife's tragic early death – it was the event that had made him the man he was now, and it needed to be acknowledged.
Barbara had, of course, noticed the photograph on the small table by his chair, and had expected him to say something about it last night, but he had not. Now they were in the sitting room together again, he in his chair and she on the near end of the sofa, having finished their after-dinner cups of tea. She leaned towards him with a concerned smile,
"Christopher, will you tell me about your wife? What was her name?"
At her words he didn't exactly flinch, but she would have to say that he 'clenched' – it was as if he drew himself in and braced himself against the question. He did not look at her; the lines around his mouth deepened before he spoke.
"…Her name was Rosalind… She was very highly thought of; she worked devotedly to help the less fortunate of Hastings; she… had many friends – you'd have liked her – in many ways you are alike, I think…" he gave her the briefest glance,
"She, like you, was… very independent… and intelligent."
Barbara smiled at him to acknowledge the compliment, and then it seemed that, instead of a preamble to a full account, this was all he was going to say.
She waited a few moments, steeled herself, and asked gently,
"Christopher, what happened to Rosalind…?"
His brow furrowed and he looked towards the hearth.
"Er…typhoid."
"When did it happen?"
"…Nearly ten years ago. Ten years in February."
He glanced at her with a tight smile as he got up from his chair and walked several paces away with no apparent goal in mind.
Barbara compressed her lips, and then tried again,
"…Reverend Quinn seemed a very wise, helpful man… He must have been of great comfort to you at the time…?"
"Yes; very helpful." Foyle's answer was fast, clipped; he ran a hand over his eyes and down his face,
"Look, er, I can't – I don't think I can… talk about this. I'm sorry."
She watched his profile for a moment, then bowed her head unhappily,
"No. I'm sorry, Christopher; I've put you on the spot, in so many ways, coming here like this. I – I had so hoped–."
Her words caught in her throat, but then she recovered and smiled regretfully,
"Of course; you're used to asking questions, not answering them; delving into other people's lives, not revealing your own…"
She knew she was being manipulative and she didn't like it, but –.
"And… I know I don't have your way of inspiring trust… I'm sorry; I've made you uncomfortable."
Foyle frowned in dismay and came to sit by her on the sofa. He reached out to cover her hand with his. For some moments he stroked her hand as he struggled against his reluctance.
Finally, gazing at the carpet, he answered very quietly,
"You're right; not used to it, but… I do trust you, Barbara." he glanced at her, squeezed her fingers, and with some difficulty began to speak.
"…It was typhoid fever; traced to contact with a person she had served at the soup kitchen – there was another case reported at the time."
He paused, glanced again at her face, and took in a breath,
"Seemed to come out of the blue. On the Sunday, mid-morning, she felt unwell… by the evening… we'd sent Andrew to a friend's and had gone to hospital. She lasted four days."
Barbara said in a hushed voice,
"The suddenness – it must have been dreadful."
He shook his head, staring into the middle distance for a long moment,
"No… the opposite. It was sudden for me and for Andrew, yes. But for her –."
He let go of her hand and covered his eyes.
"For Rosalind – she had just enough time to- to understand she was about to die. And she– felt such guilt, such remorse – knowing she would leave us –."
With a great effort he forced himself to continue,
"Nothing I said helped –; I couldn't–. There wasn't time–."
He dragged his fingers hard against his brow,
"She died… blaming herself… for leaving us alone."
Barbara saw that he fought for composure,
"I'd've given anything to have spared her that–."
His next words came out in a strangled rush,
"Sometimes wished she'd been struck down in the street–."
Shaking his head he took in a ragged breath,
"She was… so loved – shouldn't've had to die with those thoughts…"
He dried his eyes with the back of his hand,
"Reverend Quinn said she was at peace, but…"
He bowed his head, moving it doubtfully from side to side.
Barbara cautiously put a hand on his forearm, tears running freely down her face, and gave him time, before saying very quietly,
"If… you couldn't persuade her… perhaps God could…"
He shut his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Hope so."
She waited as he dwelt amongst his painful memories, sorry to have put him there yet relieved to know that he could talk to her of them. Again she spoke softly,
"Thank-you for telling me, Christopher; I felt I needed to know…"
Again he gave the merest nod.
"It… doesn't help to talk about it, does it? But… I feel I understand better…"
Foyle ran a hand over his face and took in a deep breath; he sat back on the sofa, but still frowned almost despondently at the floor.
"Shall I…; I-I'll make us some fresh tea…"
After touching his arm and looking closely at him, she rose and went into the kitchen, ran water into the kettle and stood before the cooker, her arms wrapped around herself. She wept a little, for his sorrow and for the woman he had loved and who had loved him.
The water came to a boil and she warmed the teapot, spooned the loose tea in and poured hot water over it; as she set the tea cosy in place she felt him approach from behind and her heart lifted. He put his arms around her, kissed her temple and held her close.
tbc...