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 continues mid-afternoon, Saturday 4th November. Foyle has been out shopping for essential supplies and has now returned to Steep Lane, and to Sam.

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:

dancesabove is my beta. I'm a lucky girl.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

"Shopping for two today, Mr Foyle?" she asked archly, as he handed across his ration book and Sam's.

"As you see, Mrs Harris." Foyle's curt response was firm enough to stave off any further questions, but as the woman turned to snip the coupons from the pages with her scissors, she took what time she needed to absorb the details inscribed upon the front of the second ration book:

Stewart, Samantha Evelyn, Miss

Date of birth: 12/06/18.

Hastings address. Feeding a young woman twenty minutes away from her own doorstep, is he? Well I never. Gladys pursed her lips, squirrelling the information away in her mind for future reference.

Foyle was too engrossed with Mister Harris and his purchases to register the woman lingering to read the cover of Sam's book. He therefore left the shop unworried, and relieved to have inside his carrier the basics for some decent home-cooked meals.

It was half past three when, laden with his three bags, and his pockets full of perfume and insurance, Foyle trudged back up Steep Lane and home to Sam.

Chapter 5

"Christopher, this is the perfume!" Sam's voice was thrilled as she stroked the fancy bottle perched atop her palm.

"Yes, that's right. Your favourite," nodded Foyle, parking his trilby on the coat-stand.

When Sam had padded shyly into the hall to greet him on his return from shopping, his first move had been to reach inside the pocket of his overcoat. Carefully, he'd retrieved her special parcel and placed it in her hands. Sam had looked at him with a quick "For me?", and when he'd nodded, she had opened the packet on the spot.

It was hard for Sam to rationalise her feelings when he walked in through the door, but they ran along these lines: a new relationship, and the first time they had been apart from one another since it started. What if Christopher had thought better about them in the hours when he was out? On the plus side, here was evidence that he had thought of her romantically whilst going round the shops. That at least was good, wasn't it? On the other hand, was this a consolation present? Something to soften the blow…?

Now she pursued him to the kitchen as he struggled down the hall, three bags of groceries dangling from his arms. Sam insisted eagerly, "No, but it's the perfume!"

Foyle wondered briefly whether Sam had got her needle stuck in the proverbial groove. She seemed to be repeating the same phrase. It wasn't making any sense to him.

Noticing the puzzlement on his face, Sam supplied the missing information: "This isn't just eau-de-toilette, this is the perfume – concentrated. Golly, Christopher, this must have cost an absolute fortune! Honestly, you shouldn't have."

The penny dropped with Foyle, and understanding dawned that he had given her a special thing she'd never owned before.

"I'm glad you like it, Sweetheart," he replied, stroking her arm. A warm sensation flooded through him, every bit as potent as he judged the bottled fragrance must be.

Sam started to relax a little. This was not I'm glad you like it. But I think that we should talk…, this was a simple show of pleasure in her gratitude.

Foyle leant to kiss Sam on the cheek. "How were you then, while I was gone?"

Sam started to recount the last two hours. "I tidied round, and found some fresh sheets in the airing cupboard." She paused a moment there, and a blush crept up her cheeks as she continued, "Oh, and – um – the 'phone went once. I almost did ignore it, Christopher, but you see, I thought it might have been important."

In fact, Sam's thoughts had turned to Andrew when the phone had rung. Squadron Leader Andrew Foyle – God-knows-where, now that he'd left Debden. If there were any news, his father would expect to know immediately.

"Of course. And so you answered." Foyle's prompting nod was gentle, but a prompt nevertheless.

"It was, um, Sergeant Brook." That's torn it now, she thought. He's going to be angry that I answered.

Foyle took a breath and sucked his teeth. "I see. Well, Brook's on duty this weekend, of course. He wanted… what?"

He didn't ask how Sam had managed to explain why she was answering his home-phone on a Saturday. He didn't doubt that she would tell him in her own good time.

Sam started brightly: "He really just rang to let you know that an official letter had arrived. From the Jewish Refugee Fund, thanking the Hastings Constabulary for their kind donation."

The slightest shadow crossed her face. "He… was quite surprised to hear my voice, I think." Go on and tell me I'm a silly goose for picking up the phone, she thought.

Foyle rubbed his cheek. "Yes, I imagine such a thing might just provoke some gossip at the station."

"Christopher, I – really didn't want to lie," said Sam.

"Of course you didn't."

"But I lied a bit, though."

Foyle had to raise his hand across his mouth to shield the makings of a smile from Sam.

She shrugged. "I told him you'd taken pity on me – put me up when our taxi abandoned us after the air-raid alarm – and that this morning you invited me to stay and share a bit of lunch." She heaved a sigh. "So there we are. We talked a bit about the raid. Apparently, there wasn't any damage to the town."

Foyle saw an opportunity for gallows humour. "You lied. 'A bit'? Let's see, Miss Stewart: the first part wasn't quite accurate, was it? If anything, you took pity on me when you came back here last night. And secondly, you – um – omitted certain salient details from your statement. So let's hope you never have to rely on it in court." His eyes twinkled as he leant towards her, hands in pockets. "Might harm your defence."

"Christopher, don't be annoying." Sam was flushed. The joke had fallen flat. But at least if he can pull my leg, he might not be that angry.

Foyle switched to sober and apologetic. "Sorry; copper's habits. Brook didn't ask to speak to me directly, then?"

"No, I used my shipshape office-manner, and he was quite happy for me to pass on the message." She frowned. "It would have been quite awkward if he had insisted though, wouldn't it? Oh Lord! I'm sorry, perhaps I never should have answered. But I was worried that it might have been some news of Andrew."

She swallowed. "Christopher, this is a big mess, isn't it?" Go on and tell me what a fool I am, she thought.

"Could've been a mess," he conceded. "In the event, it isn't, but it seems the devil is in everything today." At this, he could've kicked himself, because Sam started, very quietly, to cry.

Foyle leant to gather her into his arms and shushed her, though she wasn't actually making any noise. "Sam, I'm sorry. I'm an insensitive beast. None of this is your fault. None of this. Come on, forget it all for now."

He tried a primitive distraction tactic: "Anyway, just look at what I've got here…" Foyle bent to pull the bar of Bournville chocolate from his bag, and brandished it.

The sight of such a treat was just the ticket when it came to hauling Sam out of the dumps. She wiped her face with almost businesslike precision, and gave a gasp of genuine disbelief. "Where did you...? How did you know I love this more than Dairy Milk?"

"I guessed a certain level of sophistication," he waved the bar above her head to tease her, and was rewarded with a ruthless tickle in the ribs which brought his arm down low enough for Sam to reach the chocolate.

She hugged him then around the waist, resting her head on the shoulder of his waistcoat under his unbuttoned coat and jacket layers.

"You're absolutely right," she said. "I should forget it. And I'm quite too tired and overwrought to worry now, in any case."

Finally reassured that their relationship was still on safe ground after a potentially dangerous two-hour separation, she felt she could indulge her tiredness, and yawned.

"You're tired?" Foyle felt a touch of martyr coming on. His hands and arms went wide in mock-exasperation. "I've been down the hill and back up again carrying three bags of heavy groceries. Not to mention braving a queue of very warlike ladies at the butcher's. This old man's weary too," he added soulfully, a shameless play for sympathy.

"Oh, you! You're not old." Sam drew one hand from round his waist and shoved him lightly in the chest.

"Oh, and I've also brought you a mangel-wurzel," he said.

Perfume and chocolate, and a mangel-wurzel. He thought of me in every single shop, she reasoned happily. What was a mangel-wurzel anyway?

Foyle slipped a finger underneath her chin, raising it gently for a kiss, and in that moment, he knew he was a lucky man, although in many ways he felt more ancient than the pyramids.

The afternoon had darkened quickly into evening. Sam and Foyle had eaten neither lunch nor tea because their only appetite had been for kisses. Once all the groceries were safely stowed inside the pantry, they had installed themselves upon the settee opposite the fire, and set about resuming their acquaintance.

At some point they had both dropped asleep, exhausted from the various problems of the day.

Around six, Foyle had stirred. He woke to find himself reclined on the settee, his head supported by the armrest. Sam was draped along the length of him, her head nestling just below his neck, her left hand at his collar. He tucked his chin in tight, the better to examine her from what was quite an awkward angle.

Foyle smiled, inhaling deeply. Taking in her scent of comfort and desire, he felt a glowing sense of satisfaction. He was reminded of those lucky days down by the river – days when he'd landed something special for his supper. On one occasion there had been an eight-pound bream – it measured more than twenty-seven inches. Its flattened, high-backed body had been bronze, and shone like burnished metal. And having carefully measured it and weighed it, he had held it in his hands and felt the raw power in its streamlined body.

Then he'd let it go. It was magnificent. Far too extraordinary and rare to be wasted as a trophy on the likes of him.

Now, here was Sam. All youth, and verve, and vigour, honey hair, and passion. Was he allowed to keep this one? The old familiar pang of guilt was gnawing at him. Not for you, you bloody fool. You should have let her swim.

Some movement from the human quilt atop his body announced that Sam was waking up.

"Mmmchristopher?" Her hand was stealing up around his neck before her eyelids even opened. "Have we been sleeping long? What time is it?"

"It's – um," he turned his head to read the clock, and as he did so, felt a kiss creep up and plant itself on his left cheek.

"I like it here," she said, and stretched herself along him, flexing like a feline on a hearthrug.

"I can tell you do." Foyle sensed that there would be arousal issues if he didn't move, and quickly. "Sam.."

"Mm?"

"Sam, it's six o'clock. We probably should cook some dinner. You've had no food since breakfast. So now – ungh!" with superhuman effort he removed himself from under Sam, and left her sprawled unceremoniously the length of the settee.

Foyle headed for the kitchen, ignoring Sam-shaped sounds of protest from the living room, and walked into the pantry.

Years as a widower had taught Foyle all of the survival basics. It was second nature to be cooking his own meals, and, in earlier years he'd provided for Andrew also. But in no time Sam was with him in his larder, squeezing insistently into the confined space, like a fresh ingredient in a hackneyed dish.

They stood together choosing what would go into their meal, reaching around and over each other with comfortable murmurs of "let's see…" and "how about…" It felt unusual and nice.

In no time they had assembled the simple components for making toad-in-the-hole: flour, powdered egg, salt, milk and sausage.

Wartime sausage was generally regarded as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, sausages were off the ration, but on the other, their meat constituents were often suspect, and they were always rather heavy on the bread-content. As a result (and very much depending on the bona fides of the butcher), sausages tended to diminish in size by between a quarter and a third once they were cooked.

Thus, when Sam and Foyle eventually sat down to attack their supper, there was a certain air of disappointment. "My toad has shrunk!" complained Sam, utterly sincerely. And Foyle had to agree that it was a sorry sight, compared to its plump promise at the outset.

Nevertheless, with baked apples to follow, and squares of Bournville chocolate to tempt Sam at the end, the meal finished on a high note and they retired to the living room to sit before the fire and listen to the wireless.

The prospect of a second night together had hovered in the backs of their minds throughout the day, but once their evening meal was over, the matter could no longer be ignored.

Leaning against Foyle on the settee, Sam broached the subject first. "Christopher, the thing that happened last night…" she began. "You mustn't think it's put me off for good."

He stroked her arm gently. "I shouldn't blame you if it had," he said. "But I intend sleeping in Andrew's room tonight."

"No, please. I couldn't bear it. I still want you close," she pleaded.

Foyle loved the proposition, but was sceptical of their ability to stick to any rules. "Bad idea," he countered tersely, "because we've already proved who's boss in that arena. And it turns out to be you." It's no use thinking that the johnnies in your pocket make much difference, he thought. After last night's débâcle, nothing's guaranteed.

"Well, would you rather that I left, then? Since obviously I make things difficult?" Sam's voice was hurt and huffy, but he noticed that she didn't move a muscle as she lay against him.

He closed his eyes and stroked her hair. "Nope. Since you ask. I'd much sooner you stayed. I'm even ready for a life of difficulties, if they come wrapped up like you. But I've learned my limitations. 'No' isn't an easy word for me, when you say 'please'. Or even if you pout and huff."

"I'm pleading and huffing now and you're not having the slightest trouble saying 'no'," observed Sam, pertly.

"Yep, but upstairs with you in my arms is an entirely different matter. Besides," he continued mischievously, "I'm not as young as I used to be. If we had a repeat of last night, I'm not sure my poor old ticker would be up to it." Foyle opened one eye a crack, squinting down to gauge her reaction at his ham performance.

"Is this how it's going to be from now on, then?" sighed Sam. "Every time I want my way, you'll play the Poor Old Man?"

"Pretty much. It's my only defence against determined young ladies."

They slept in separate rooms that night.

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

More Author's Notes:

Mangel-wurzels are like swedes. Mainly used as cattle-fodder, but (surprise-surprise) they ate them as a table-vegetable in the war.

...

More soon.

GiuC