L'Aimant

Summary:

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation – in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

This chapter picks up at 10 o'clock on Saturday morning, 4th November. After a promising start, Sam and Foyle have had a rough night that has left them both smarting, in their own ways.

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Note:

Thanks to dancesabove for beta-scrutiny.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

"Christopher." Again, Sam's voice, increasingly a voice of calm. "Please don't feel bad." Deep breath, and then more brightly: "I shouldn't think that any harm's been done. And if it has, well, as my father always says, 'fortune favours the brave'!"

It seemed to her that there was still some use for her bravado after all.

Sam's mention of her father did sweet nothing to encourage Foyle. In his imagination, Iain Stewart had him flayed and then castrated, burning at the stake for good measure. But this was not a time to dwell upon his own preoccupations; his concern was, first and foremost, Sam.

"Don't know what to say," he whispered, and then demonstrated fully that he didn't. His face was tight-lipped, stony, still and stricken.

It fell to Sam to make the first move. She reached her hand out, clasping his, and drew him down against her in forgiveness. When he was lying down, she stole into his arms.

And Christopher drew the covers over them in silence, and sank his nose into her hair, and lay awake, still grim-faced, keeping vigil as she slept.

Chapter 3

Foyle woke some hours later, having drifted off in spite of his intention not to do so. On waking, though, he didn't move a muscle. Instead he lay immobile, gazing down at Sam's head next to him, asleep.

He thought it must be getting on for 10 o'clock. Craning his neck backwards to read the Westclox on the bedside cabinet confirmed this.

Outside it was a sunny day. But no warmth comes from the sun this time of year, he thought gloomily.

He sighed, reviewing the events of the last twelve hours. Things last night had started very well; beautifully, even, and had developed still better, but then affairs had veered off-course, and ended in distress – for both of them, but particularly for Sam.

Despite his best intentions, Sam had suffered sudden gross discomfort when they'd started making love, and in all the consternation he had panicked, and failed – he'd FAILED – to keep his own body under control and Sam safe. Bluntly put, he had performed like a rampant amateur and let her down badly.

His jaw had a grim set about it as he watched her cradled on his arm. All sensation had died in that limb some hours before, but despite its complete numbness, nothing would induce him to disturb her now. Inflicted enough damage already, he reflected.

She stirred and slowly blinked awake.

"Sam? Any discomfort, Sweetheart?" He stroked her hair, brows knitted in concern.

"Mmm. A little." Sam stretched, and scrunched her eyes, and grimaced slightly, as if trying to decide just how sore she was. Then she cast him an apologetic look. "Poor Christopher. I know you think you're quite the villain, but you mustn't worry – these things pass."

She surely hoped they would, at all events. The alternative was rather too awkward to contemplate.

Sam turned into his body, nuzzling his neck and asking for a kiss. "I really wouldn't change a thing," she lied kindly, fingers crossed behind her back.

He let her kiss him for a while, feeling he deserved none of it; then carefully extracted his numb arm from underneath her and threw back the covers with his left hand.

"Going to bring you some tea first, and run you a hot bath later," he muttered.

Feeling the chill against his bare body, Foyle reached for his woollen dressing gown. He gritted his teeth and winced, rubbing at his right arm as it adjusted back to having circulation. A sudden nauseating nerve-assault of pins and needles gripped him. Suffer, you bastard, he rebuked himself, dragging the sleeve up his useless arm and heading for the bedroom door.

Sam lay there watching her first and only lover leave the room, and took stock. On the one hand, here she was, relieved of the burden of virginity, and loved, undoubtedly. On the other, she was now, in some minds, "damaged goods" and very probably in trouble, or about to be. And sore to boot. She sighed and thanked her lucky stars it was a Saturday. She wouldn't have to take these worries with her to the station yet awhile.

Foyle made his way downstairs barefoot, feeling both dejected and half-crippled. His right arm and hand were nigh on useless at the moment. There was no point trying to grab the banister, because he'd lost his grip, and come to think of it, the same was true in other senses too.

As he passed the mirror in the hallway, he could see the sparse remnants of hair on top of his head sticking up at a ridiculous angle. Move over, Clark Gable he thought sardonically, wondering what Sam, with her predilection for suave icons of the Silver Screen, saw in the human wreck staring back at him from the mirror. Dear Mr Gable certainly would not have left her in this mess. Not Mister Perfect Bloody Gable.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Foyle tried to pat his hair down with his left hand. When was this right arm going to stop playing silly buggers? Last night, he mused, he'd felt as if he could have shifted mountains, but this morning, knocking the skin off a rice pudding would have been a challenge. Assuming there was rice to be had. Which, hard luck, there wasn't.

Tea preparation was usually a straightforward operation, but proved more complex with only his left hand to call upon. He filled the largish kettle right up to the brim with difficulty, and placed the vessel gingerly on the hob to boil.

Thinking for a moment, Foyle scratched his head in absent fashion, then bent to rummage behind the curtain underneath the sink. Moments later he emerged with a rubber hot water bottle. Then, remembering what else he'd noticed there, he dived back underneath to fish out a battered-looking half-full box of Lux Flakes.

By now the feeling was starting to return to his fingers, but they hurt like blazes, so he sat down at the kitchen table for a moment, cradling his hand and looking miserably into space.

A frantic rapping at the front door broke his reverie, alerting him to some commotion on his doorstep. Foyle pulled the dressing gown around him and strode down the hall to open up and find out what was going on.

There on his top step, clinging to the railings at one side, a scruffy-looking boy of about seven was grinning up at him expectantly.

"Penny for the guy, mister?" The urchin turned his head and pointed down the front steps to a rusty pram. Inside it sat a straw-stuffed effigy of Hitler, easily recognisable by virtue of its pasty cardboard face, lopsided hairstyle, staring eyes, and toothbrush-shaped moustache. Beside it stood an older boy.

"Aaaand... who might you be?" inquired Foyle, taking in the whole tableau and wondering whether he might perhaps have died and gone to hell without noticing it.

"I'm Arthur's bruvver," beamed the door-rapper, pointing at the taller, gangly almost-youth whose job it seemed to be to push the pram.

Foyle took a second look, and thought he recognised the lad. Arthur Reynolds, that was it. His father had been among those lost at Dunkirk, back in '40. The boy had been – what – nine, at the time? So his brother must have been no more than three?

Foyle's annoyance dampened down a tad. "Arthur?" He nodded to acknowledge the boy. "Bit old for this type of thing, aren't you?"

"Doin' it for my little brother Charlie, Mr Foyle," the older boy jerked his head towards the urchin on Foyle's step. "He's never seen a firework, nor a bonfire. We're collectin', see. It's fer the war effort. Kind of…"

Foyle stretched his eyes wide in astonishment at the barefaced cheek. Was that so? He folded his arms and fixed Arthur with a look of careful scrutiny.

"Isn't that the same guy you were wheeling around last year? You weren't allowed to burn it then, and you won't be allowed to burn it this year. Blackout rules, and waste of fuel. So – help me out here – why exactly are you collecting money?"

"We know about the rules, Mr Foyle, but..."

Foyle's face spelt a warning. "Hop it, Arthur, before I put you on a charge: demanding money with menaces." He raised his thumb and gestured to the youngster on his step.

"Honest, Mr Foyle, it all goes in a kitty. Then when the war's over we're goin' to invite people and burn 'im proper and 'ave a knees-up round the fire." The boy hung his head. "Like we used to do when Da... like we used to do before the war."

"Jus' like before 'Itler, Mister Foyle," echoed his younger brother. Foyle sized the child up and doubted he had any memory whatsoever of "before Hitler".

The stark reality of a world of young boys without fathers. Foyle stood there on his threshold in his dressing gown, looking down at the cheerful, grimy face. Seven years old, grey socks halfway down his calves, a scabby right knee, and an older brother looking out for him. But no father. Hitler's legacy.

Foyle turned to reach inside the door and picked sixpence out of the milk money lying on the hall stand.

He held it out to Charlie between thumb and forefinger. "I don't suppose," he confided, "that fireworks will be easy to come by, even when the war is over. But if and when you find any, let your brother light them. Oh, and Charlie?"

"Yes, mister?" Charlie grinned up at him, delighted with the sixpence he now clutched inside his grubby palm.

"Rockets and Roman candles are the best." Foyle turned then to step indoors, nodding a faint smile at Arthur, who grinned back up at him and raised his hand. It struck Foyle that the lad looked older than his dozen-or-so years, and if it meant so much to him to put a match to Hitler come the war's end, he really shouldn't begrudge a sixpence here or there.

Even as the boys resumed their slow ascent of Steep Lane, pushing Herr Hitler in his chariot, and Foyle had managed to get one bare foot back inside his own front door, the shrill voice of a neighbour from along the street assailed his ears.

"Late night, I see, Mr Foyle?" The older woman looked him up and down as she passed downhill, appraising his scant attire – dressing gown, bare feet, no visible pyjamas – and delivered a judgmental glare.

"Police work, Mrs Evans. Mind your step, now." In case you break your neck on the way down, he added, sotto voce. Then, he stepped inside and closed the door against the world.

By now the kettle was whistling frantically on the hob. Foyle turned the burner off underneath and poured some water in to warm the teapot. For Samantha's tea, he thought.

It occurred to him that the fire in the living room would need some encouragement, so he busied himself to coax a blaze out of the glowing remains of coal from the previous evening. Can't have her cold today.

Then he walked back to the kitchen, emptied the warmed teapot, and spooned in the tea-leaves.

Water's gone off the boil. Just right for a hot water bottle. He filled it, taking care to burp the air out of the top before screwing in the stopper. This will do her good.

He lit the gas again and brought the water back up to the boil, then filled the pot and let it stand while reaching down two cups and saucers from the cupboard. Milk in the jug. She takes two sugars. Not much of that left. I'll just drink mine without.

Foyle prepared a tray – pot, tea-cosy, jug, bowl, cups and saucers, tea-strainer – and tucked the hot water bottle underneath his arm. Negotiating stairs with all this stuff reminded him of when Rosalind was ill. Endless journeys upstairs with his hands full, hoping each time he would find her better. Then finally they'd taken her to hospital, and it was over quickly. A long while ago now, but in many ways time had stood still for him. Nothing in his heart had stirred in all these years for women. Until Sam. What if I've ruined things? The thought tormented him.

Upstairs, entering the bedroom, Foyle could see that Sam had snuggled down again beneath the covers in defence against the cold. He cleared a space on the dressing table and deposited the tray.

Sam's nose poked out from underneath the eiderdown. "What was all the commotion downstairs?" she asked.

"Penny for the guy, and a nosy neighbour," he explained. "Sorted both out. How d'you feel?"

"Tickety-boo," she lied. Then, hopefully, "Is that the tea?" She made to sit up, but he reached and pressed her down, lifting up the bedcovers and sliding the hot water bottle underneath.

"Mmm. Lovely," she said. "I'm spoiled."

"Stay there until I've lit the gas fire. Don't want you cold." He bent to see to business, and soon some warmth was building in the room.

"First things first," he said. He walked around the bedroom picking clothes up from the night before, and set them on a chair. Then he opened up the closet, looking for something she could wear. Delving far into the back, he found a satin, quilted dressing gown of Rosalind's, untouched for a decade. Not such a good idea, he thought. Stupid and tactless. Find something else.

He lit upon his own spare dressing gown: soft elephant-grey wool with a rope-cord belt. Not the height of glamour… but warm. Of course, Sam could wear a sack and look… Enough of that. He fished it from the closet and took it across to her.

"Maybe not your colour, but it should keep out the cold." Foyle twisted his lip into a half-smile, waiting for her to sit up in the bed, holding up the dressing gown in preparation to sweep it round her shoulders.

"I say! Just like last night at the air-raid shelter!" she observed brightly, then surfaced from under the bedclothes like Venus rising from sea, bare-breasted and with tousled honey hair.

Foyle's breath caught in his throat. Mustn't start with this again. He moved solemnly across to drape the dressing gown around her, concentrating on the task, deliberately not lingering or meeting her gaze.

Sam wasn't having that. "Christopher." She sought the eyes that avoided hers.

"Hmm?" Foyle was making an elaborate meal of tucking the dressing gown around her without actually touching any part of her skin.

"CHRISTOPHER." She caught his head in both hands, shrugging off the dressing gown impatiently, and turned his face towards her. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop not touching me."

He blinked between her hands and chewed his lip, still trying to evade her. "Can I pour your tea now?" His tone was stubborn.

So was Sam. "In a moment. Kiss me first."

"Sam… I..."

"Do it." Insistent Sam.

So he sighed, and bent his head, and did it, and it was a delicious feast of more forgiveness, lasting long enough for Sam to haul him out of Purgatory.

Sam surfaced from the kiss and beamed, contented that finally the atmosphere was healed. "Just the job. So – tea then?" She reached behind her for the dressing gown she had cast off earlier.

"Right away, milady." Foyle rose to do the honours, his step regaining something of its normal spring.

They drank their tea together sitting on the bed, Sam wrapped in Foyle's spare dressing gown, cuddling her hot water bottle. The tea was a little stewed, and not as hot as it might have been, but neither of them minded much.

When Foyle had put their cups back on the tray, and finally found some slippers for himself and Sam (on whom his house-shoes looked like boats), the time had come to talk and sort things out.

"Sam, listen. Whatever happens, I'll look after you." He held her hand. "If you'll let me, that is." Chewing at his lip again. "Considering my record isn't brilliant to-date."

Sam rested a hand atop his thigh. "What happened was a silly mishap, Christopher. I had no idea my body would react that way, and nor did you. I'm sorry it upset you so."

"You're sorry? I think you have the situation somewhat skewed."

"The way I see it, this is neither 'you' nor 'me'. It's us," she reasoned. "I had a shock, and so did you. It's over now. The body heals." She stroked his leg.

"You hope," he offered ruefully, then mentally kicked himself.

"Yes, of course, I hope. But on the other hand, if… anything… should come of this, I'll love… it… as part of you. You see?"

A ball of heat rose in his chest and crept up to settle around his ears. Behind his eyes, a tingle started up. His lip and inside-cheek were taking furious punishment. He was fighting for composure.

"Christopher?" her hand reached out to rest upon the furnace of his nape. He bowed his head and turned to her, and bent and sank his head into her lap.

She held it there. They sat a while.

Some moments later Sam made to rise, easing Foyle's head gently from her lap. "Christopher, I just need to go…"

"Mmm? Oh. Of course. I'll clear this stuff away," he murmured.

Sam disappeared into the bathroom and Foyle gathered up the tea-things, taking them downstairs.

Back in the kitchen, he placed the crockery in the sink, carefully straining the dregs into a jug and preserving the tea-leaves. You never knew where your next quarter-pound was coming from, but how bizarre to bother at a time like this.

Feeling a certain urgency himself, he walked across the kitchen to the door which led into the garden. Outside, finding a convenient bush hidden from the prying eyes of neighbouring houses – police business, Mrs Evans – he relieved himself. As often was the case in these situations, philosophical thoughts drifted through his brain. Miracle of evolution, he mused, looking downwards. Practical, distracting, and downright bloody dangerous.

Moving back indoors, he washed his hands underneath the tap, then turned and spied the battered box of Lux Flakes he had fished out earlier from underneath the sink. He'd actually been saving those to soak his socks, but they were needed now for better things, so it was no contest. Picking up the box, he headed back upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Sam? You all right in there?"

"Um. Probably," she ventured. "I think I've spoiled your dressing gown."

"Doesn't matter," he shot back, just a little too fast to hide his agitation.

There was silence for a moment. Then inspiration hit him. "Sam, there are – um – some… things of Rosalind's… in the cupboard next to the washbasin if you need… But – perhaps you'd like a bath first? Will you let me in?"

"Just a moment, Christopher." He could hear some rustling noises behind the door, and then the bolt was drawn back slowly.

She was standing there, a bit self-conscious, wrapped in his dowdy dressing gown, belted with a rough cord, looking like a dishevelled angel in an army-blanket. "Christopher, I think probably the bed as well…"

"Couldn't matter less." He stroked her shoulders. "Now then," brightly, brandishing the battered packet of Lux Flakes. "I hear that these are just the ticket for washing… hair… and things."

Sam looked at him suspiciously. "Did you hear me complaining to Brookie about having no shampoo?"

"Might've done." He pushed one hand into his dressing gown pocket and assumed a look of innocence.

"You LET me find that box of Lux next to the rat poison… Christopher!"

"Possibly had a little bit to do with that." He started swinging the arm inside his pocket, and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"GIVE me those!" She snatched the box from him with a giggle of delight. It was the song of the river where he went to fish.

Foyle steered her gently back inside to perch upon the lavatory seat in her dressing gown. I can put this right, he thought.

The bathroom was pleasantly warm from the hot water tank adjacent. Dashing outside to the airing cupboard, he returned with some towels and a facecloth. "Hold these a moment," he instructed, resting them on her knees, and turned to fill the bath, opening the hot tap full flow.

"Honestly Christopher, I can do that..."

"You could, but I'm your humble servant." He shot her a conspiratorial grin. "Would madame like some bath salts?"

"Haven't seen any in so long, I can barely remember what they are. But, yes, if you've got some, that would be nice." Sam sat there, feeling strange, not really used to being waited on.

But Foyle was in determined pursuit of luxuries to throw into Sam's bath-water. Back of the cupboard somewhere. Rosalind always kept some… there they are.

"L'Aimant," he announced, squinting at the label, and emptied the entire jar of powder into the water. "Your favourite, I think."

"Christopher, I don't think you're supposed to put the whole…" She might as well have saved her breath. He was a man on a mission. "…and we're only supposed to have five inches of w – "

"Well, if we both use the same water, we can have ten inches. You can go first," he grinned.

"But you'll smell of roses too," she reasoned.

"Always been my ambition," he quipped, "but I'm in a dirty job."

Sam laughed and thought he was the most adorable thing she had ever known.

****** TBC ******

Author's Note:

Foyle's assumption in this chapter that Sam's idol, Clark Gable, was a more prudent man than he in the contraception-department would have been erroneous. Actress Loretta Young's "adoption" of a child was widely reported in 1937, but in fact the child in question was her own biological daughter, and Gable's illegitimate child, born two years before. Ever the considerate and supportive lover, Gable had tried to pressure her to abort the child, but Young, a devout Catholic, dug her heels in.

If Gable and Sam had ever got together, and "the worst" had happened, as indeed it did with Loretta Young, I like to imagine Iain Stewart, in his dog-collar, picking Gable up by the lapels and shaking him until his sticky-out ears rattled. It's unclear whether Foyle needs to worry at the moment ;o)

More chapters coming soon.

GiuC