Historical note: Petrol (gas) rationing for vehicles was introduced in the UK in September 1939, with petrol ration books in effect on Sept. 16th.

From The Daily Telegraph, Sept. 8, 1939:

Persons requiring more than the minimum ration represented by the books should apply to the Divisional Petroleum Officer for the area which the petrol is required. The names and addresses of these will be issued in a day or two.

A form of application for those who want motor spirit for stationary engines and purposes other than for use in road or agricultural vehicles is also to be had at post offices.

Commercial vehicle operators will also be unable to obtain motor spirit after Sept. 16 except on rations. They will get supplies through their group organisers.

Chapter 2

DCS Foyle closed up the file he had been reading, tucked his pencil into his notebook and tossed both items into his briefcase and closed it. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids and sighed with fatigue. At least he was spared the necessity of reading glasses, he mused. A glance at his watch told him it was only eleven o'clock – too early to stop for lunch. He took up the flask of water he'd stowed in his bag and, remembering his manners, proffered it to Sam. She declined; he swallowed a mouthful and turned his gaze out over the rolling verdant countryside. They had made good progress and he estimated only another three or so hours driving time to their destination. With just one break they should arrive easily by four in the afternoon, well before sunset.

His gaze flicked over to the rear-view mirror where he saw the reflection of Sam's eyes, narrowed under contracted brows, focussed on the road ahead. He thought she looked tired. They had hardly exchanged a word all morning and yet somehow, today, he felt more comfortable in silence.

They stopped to eat in a little village, raising unwanted attention and curiosity amongst the residents as few civilian - or rather, non-military - cars had been seen driving the local roads in some months. Sam was subdued and ate very little, pleading a slight headache. Foyle had reluctantly offered to delay an hour so that she could rest, but, to his relief, she had declined and soon they were back on the road. He had accepted her reasoning that a longer rest once they had reached their destination was better than a short one with the journey still to complete, so he thought no more about it, and retrieved another file from his briefcase.

They traveled on for another hour in silence, he reading and she observing the gentle farmland give way to a craggy, hilly landscape. They were forced to detour onto a secondary road for several miles; then there was a tedious delay when they were overtaken by a convoy of military vehicles whose progress took priority, and they had to pull over and wait. Foyle got out to stretch his legs and to observe the parade, but Sam remained behind the wheel. He noticed that she massaged her temples with her fingers, and he felt a passing regret for not having insisted that they stop for an hour. But he wouldn't mention it to her lest it sound like a criticism of her judgement – and he didn't want to undermine her confidence so soon after her illness.

Finally the last lorry trundled by; he climbed into the rear seat again and Sam started the motor and followed at a distance. The road wound its way north over several county borders. Foyle, slouching casually in the seat as he read, began to find the regular oscillation of the tyres over the macadam rather lulling and had to force his eyes to focus on the typewritten words. He was a half-page from giving it up as a bad job when the car suddenly, sharply veered left off the road to the sound of rapidly down-shifting gears. Sam's voice choked out hurriedly,

"Sorry, sir; got to stop –."

Before he could react she braked hard and he was thrown forward – his knees hit the seat-back, papers flew out of his hand and the briefcase slammed against his leg. When he had righted himself and looked about, he saw the driver's door flung wide – and his driver stumbling away into the wood, clearly about to be violently ill.

Foyle rapidly reviewed the day's events in his mind and he found his own conduct wanting. He snatched up his flask of water, climbed out of the car and strode towards the trees, berating himself.

'How could he have ignored her fatigue? How could he have disregarded his responsibility to her, retreating behind a wall of professional aloofness? Did he honestly think Rosalind would have approved of his behaviour, allowing his young subordinate to suffer, just so he might avoid discomfort over his feelings–?'

The idea brought him up short and he stopped in his tracks.

'For Sam? No, he wouldn't allow himself to think of it –. Why, she might have been his daughter-in-law if Andrew had –! No, he mustn't imagine that feelings of sympathy inspired by her illness could be anything more. It was completely inappropriate. He was her boss, a man in a position of authority over a young woman...'

But that didn't license this cold and irresponsible indifference to her well-being.

Twenty yards off he heard the distinct sounds of retching. He walked on in the direction from which they originated. Foyle caught sight of her, bent forward, supporting herself with an arm around a birch. As he approached she straightened and then slumped against the tree. He unscrewed the top of the flask to pour water liberally over his handkerchief, and held it out to her discreetly from behind. He watched as she pulled off her leather driving gauntlet and pressed the cold cloth to her forehead, eyes and mouth; he could plainly see her hand shaking from the ordeal. She turned slightly towards him and he gave her the flask, she rinsed and spit delicately onto the grass, then took several tentative sips.

After a few deep breaths she faced him with a weak smile and began to apologise, but he hushed her, took her arm and led her back towards a low stone wall where they sat together. He had never seen her so pale, not even in hospital, and he saw that she shivered as she drank from the flask.

"Sorry, Sam. I didn't realise you were ill." He removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders; she gave him a grateful glance, and said shakily,

"You needn't look so worried, sir – I'll be alright now; it was just migraine. I haven't had one in ages."

"It's gone, then? Feel better?"

"Yes, that's how they seem to go – it's blinding for several hours until I'm (she waved her hand towards the birch) – and then after it just fades away."

She held the handkerchief to her forehead.

"Mmh, I know how they are; my… my wife used to suffer from them when she was your age. They stopped after–, when she was a little older."

He had been about to say, 'after Andrew came,' but checked himself, whether to save her the painful association or to save himself the plain evidence of his greater age, he wasn't precisely sure at that moment.

"Oh, that's good to know – that I might not have them always."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I think we found what caused them."

"Did you? What was it?"

He gave her a sympathetic look as though about to deliver bad news and she frowned quizzically.

"What was it? Tell me, sir"

"Chocolate."

"Chocolate?"

"Unh-huh. Have you . . . had any chocolate recently, Sam?"

She turned away with a blush that brought a welcome hint of colour to her cheeks, and a dawning light of understanding came over her features.

"That must be it! I've hardly had chocolate at all since the start of the war; and I haven't had migraine either. But then Joe brought me –." Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

Foyle cleared his throat.

"Well, the rationing's good for something, at least: less chance of migraines."

Sam regarded him sceptically for a moment, and then she broke into a slow grin. He returned a half-smile and she bumped her shoulder gently against his to acknowledge the joke. Foyle found the gesture both charming and a little too informal, almost intimate; he felt he was losing his footing in this balancing act between kindness and appropriate disinterest. She must have seen something of his thoughts because her eyes clouded and she looked down before saying tentatively,

"You know, sir, I'm really very grateful that I was assigned to be your driver. I'm learning a lot, seeing how you work and – well – even if I never do anything officially for the police, I know I will have picked up some very valuable, and useful, sort of experience. I . . . just wanted to say that."

Foyle shifted his weight and gazed off towards the trees. He disliked being thanked in a case like this where he felt he hadn't actively done anything to deserve it. He wasn't sure how to respond, and he was surprised when Sam continued,

"And … I'm sorry I messed about at the farm and – well, it must have been distressing for you to come into the hospital. Painful memories, I imagine."

Foyle went very still.

How did she know – how had she even come to think of it? – and why did she tell him she understood what he had been feeling? He didn't want her thinking about him in that way. It wasn't right.

He stood, took a step or two away, and stared at a particularly fascinating laburnum.

"If you're up to it, we should go. Don't want to be on the road at dusk." He turned slightly in her direction so as not to appear entirely rude.

Sam winced in dismay,

"I-I've offended you; I'm sorry."

Foyle took in a breath and shut his eyes in exasperation and some degree of remorse. He sat down again, pressing his palms against the cold stone.

"No. You haven't, Sam. Simply that I don't–. Not something you should concern yourself with. All right?" His voice was a little more emphatic than he had intended. He tried again, quietly, and looked at her.

"All right?"

Maybe it was because she had just recovered from a serious illness and was feeling overly resolute; maybe it was because she had come to realise that working with him, being a part of his world, really meant more to her than the chance of a new life with an exciting stranger. For whatever reason, Sam returned his look steadily, calmly and held his gaze and refused to let him look away.

She hadn't formulated a plan; she had no set intention, and she didn't expect anything from him; she just... wanted him to know that she cared, that she was concerned for him – how could that be wrong? There was a bloody war on, people's lives were being torn to bits – surely some honest compassion could be expressed?

But his reserved, closed look never wavered, and she lowered her eyes, but at the same time she covered his hand with her own. Foyle looked down at their hands, his lips compressed in a thin, straight line; he revealed no further response.

"All right, sir." Her voice came out stronger than she felt. She turned to pick up the flask and the damp cloth.

"Thanks. I'll clean these before I return them to you."

She rose, gave him a small smile, and walked away towards the waiting car.

Foyle stared at his shoes and bit the inside of his cheek; her eyes had unsettled him and he wasn't certain he had acquitted himself well in the exchange. Could they continue on their journey as things stood? Did something more need to be said? He felt strangely chilled and looked up to watch Sam walk away in the dappled sunlight under the trees, wearing his jacket over her uniform.

He gave a little grunt of realisation.

Perhaps that was it – she felt drawn towards a man in civilian clothes, some vestige of a normal, safe, stable life. Perhaps if he were in uniform he'd just blend in and she wouldn't – what? – What did he imagine this young woman's feelings were towards him? Foyle's hand crept up to rest over the knot of his necktie, his fingers reaching just inside the top of his waistcoat. Whatever they were, it didn't bear thinking on.

He rose from his seat and followed slowly to the car. The engine was already purring. After an imperceptible hesitation he pulled open the front passenger door and got in to his usual place beside her. He glanced into the back seat and noticed that she had recovered the loose papers and briefcase from the floor, set his overcoat and hat on the rear seat again, and had laid his jacket over top.

Then he saw the gleam of amusement in her expression, which she was endeavouring to hide.

He raised an eyebrow,

"Do give me a moment's warning next time you intend to stand the car on its front wheels, won't you, Sam?"

"Certainly, sir."

With a quick nod and a glance in her side mirror she put the car in gear and pulled onto the road.

The remainder of the journey was comparatively uneventful. Good navigation and somewhat increased speed allowed them to reach their destination a mere three-quarters of an hour behind schedule.

TBC...