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.
The story resumes on Tuesday 5th December, one month after Foyle and Sam have become lovers. Sam is off to the shops, and things are about to change.
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 Notes:
Constable Davis belongs to TartanLioness.
The normal format for date-notation in the UK is dd/mm/yy.
dancesabove is a wonderful beta, dash it!
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Around six, they roused themselves and cooked their evening meal, sharing a simple dinner round the kitchen table. They ate with just their forks, so they could continue to hold hands throughout the meal.
At nine the time arrived for Sam to return to her digs. Foyle summoned a taxi to convey her home, and rode with her in the rear of the car, sitting sideways-on, his arm extended along the back of the seat, just as he often did in the Wolseley.
Mindful of appearances, Sam sat straight-backed, facing forwards, and held her hands immobile in her lap.
When they arrived outside her lodgings, Foyle reached down for Sam's hand and raised it to his lips. "Tomorrow, business as usual. Don't be late, Miss Stewart."
"You can rely on that, Sir."
When she withdrew her hand to leave the taxi, he felt a tug inside himself, as if a little piece of him was leaving with her.
"Lovely girl, Guv!" offered the cabbie amiably once she'd gone, looking through the rear view mirror at his remaining passenger.
Foyle met the driver's eyes, sizing up the man and the remark. Finding no animus or innuendo there, he smiled and glanced away. "One of a kind," he said.
Chapter 7
Tuesday, 5th December (one month has passed)
"Brookie, I need to pop out to the shops." Sam bounced up to the station front desk. "Haven't got a thing in the pantry for dinner tonight. I've asked Mr Foyle's permission. He says it's quite all right for me to slip out for a bit."
"Right-oh, Miss Stewart. See you later then."
Brookie watched her sail through the swing-doors. What a lovely piece of work she was, and no mistake. And there was no denying that the old man had a new spring in his step just lately—not that he didn't always walk like a dancer. For the last month, Brookie had been watching all the goings-on with a vested interest—a look here, a blush there, the inadvertent placing of a hand at the small of Miss Stewart's back as Foyle propelled her through the station doors—and he reckoned he'd more or less got things straight about these two. Well, good-oh, he was glad for 'em.
In terms of business, things were looking shipshape in the book: all bets were properly logged and covered. The only problem had been coming up with how to prove if any of the Foyle/Miss Stewart scenarios the lads were betting on had actually happened.
One morning, when the boss, Miss Stewart and Sergeant Milner were safely out of the picture, he and the lads had held a secret conflab in the constabulary kitchen. They'd agreed that outcomes would be judged on "best available evidence" and "balance of probabilities" based on Brookie's observations. Brooke had made the effort to explain both these ideas v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y to Constable Davis, who wasn't the sharpest tool in the box.
"All right with us, Sarge," one of the lads had chimed in. "Well, it's only for a larf after all. Not like we're ever gonna catch 'em in flagrantey, is it?"
So that was all sorted out.
But being a basically honest bloke, Brooke had reason to regret telephoning Foyle's house on that Saturday morning a month ago, the day after their trip to the flicks. Yes, he really did regret that call, because Miss Stewart had answered, hadn't she? And honesty obliged him to make a note of that under "best available evidence". Which, in turn, made him rue offering odds of 40 to 1 against one particular outcome.
Standing in the queue outside Harris's butcher's, clutching her ration book, Sam began to feel queasy. By the time she'd reached the counter for her turn, and handed her book across to Mrs Harris, the smell of the raw meat inside the shop was giving her the most terrible nausea.
At that point, she should have left forthwith, minus the minced lamb, because quite frankly there was no way she could ever have imagined herself eating mince again. But all at once, it was too late. The smell overwhelmed her and she had to rush out of the shop to retch and vomit on the pavement.
All the other women in the queue were craning necks to see the happenings outside. Gladys Harris, on the other hand, registering Sam's hasty exit, and the subsequent to-do, was far more taken with an entry on the cover of the ration book she now held in her hand.
Stewart, Samantha Evelyn, Miss
Date of birth: 12/06/18.
Being a butcher's wife—sharp with the pennies, and one judicious finger on the scales—Gladys Harris added one-plus-one to give the oddly interesting answer, three. So this was the girl who had been Mr Foyle's young woman visitor a few weeks ago. Up went the Gladys Harris eyebrows—and yet she barely missed a beat before her voice assumed a tone of false solicitude.
"Such a shame. Is someone helping that young lady? Oh-dear-oh! Next, please!"
Some moments later, she was gushing "Hope you're feeling better, Dear," when Sam stepped back inside, bedraggled and a little pale from bringing up her breakfast. "Don't worry yourself. I'll send the boy out front with a bucket and some sawdust. Now then, a quarter of minced lamb, was it? Have you got far to go? I can let you have a bit of sausage if you like."
"No—no, not too far. Hastings Constabulary," supplied Sam haltingly. She was trying to ignore the prickle of returning nausea at the back of her ears, and it never crossed her mind she might be digging her reputation a nasty hole.
As she turned to leave the shop, carrying her little parcel of meat, a wave of private misery engulfed her. The ominous, sinking feeling that had dogged her for the last two weeks had just become a certainty.
That afternoon, on their routine inspection-run to Eastbourne, Sam felt the time had come to break the news to Christopher. Not really knowing how to start, she screwed her courage tight and eased a toe into the water.
"Silly thing happened at lunchtime today, Christopher. I felt quite ill inside the butcher's—the smell."
Distracted by some random thought-or-other, Foyle wasn't quite on form. "Hmm? Sorry to hear that, Sam. Milner can send a body round. Check the hygiene standards. Can't have them selling meat that's off."
"No—no. Nothing like that. I'm afraid that I… threw up my breakfast outside." Sam was staring forwards through the windscreen, her tone apologetic, as if communicating an infernal nuisance.
It took another second for the light to dawn, and the reality of what he had been told to register with Foyle. His eyelids closed as the full impact of the news sank in. It's as we feared, then. Damn and blast my clumsiness for putting her in this state.
He pulled himself together, cleared his throat and pointed vaguely towards the roadside. "Pull over, would you, Sweetheart? Soon as you can."
Sam drew to a halt in the first convenient lay-by. They were quite a long way outside Hastings. Very few cars shared the road, and the only sound when she switched off the engine was a handful of half-hearted twitters from a nearby hedge.
Neither of them spoke for a while. After a moment, Foyle removed his hat, and stretched his arm behind her along the back of the seat.
Sam could sense him turning sideways-on to look at her, but made no move to meet his eyes. Instead she lowered her eyelashes and gazed into her lap. The next move was Christopher's, and his alone.
Foyle studied her warily, as if assessing what form of contact he could get away with at this point. Then he reached out with his index finger and stroked her cheek. Sam sat immobile. He withdrew his hand.
"Um. Sam, I was, er, going to ask you this at Christmas anyway, but now seems suddenly appropriate."
He pursed his lips, then tossed out what was on his mind. "Miss Stewart. How d'you fancy marrying your boss?"
He waited for some sign that she had heard. Getting none, he improvised a few incentives.
"He's got a bit of mileage left in him. Upholstery's a bit worn," —as if to demonstrate the goods, Foyle raised a hand and skimmed the fuzz atop his head— "but the bodywork is solid, and the engine's sound. Besides, he can't go anywhere without you, so..."
He reached across again and took her gloved left hand. Gently pulling off the gauntlet, he paused to scrutinise the fingers resting lightly in his own. And then he raised the fourth one to his lips and kissed the back of it.
"How about it, Sam? Hmm? Throw a poor old dog a bone?"
It was a bright, clear winter's day, but Sam's view through the windscreen turned distinctly misty. She sniffed back tears just once, then shrugged. "Provided I don't have go and buy one from the butcher's right away. Because I don't believe my stomach's up to it."
Foyle chewed his cheek and watched her steadily, still waiting for a proper answer. Eventually, Sam let out a ragged sigh and said, "But as for marrying my boss, I think that I should like that very much."
He reached up then and took her face between his hands. "Sam," he breathed, and kissed her softly. "Thank you. Don't deserve you."
They sat there staring forwards through the windscreen, hand in hand, and started making plans.
Sam's appetite was clawing back a bit of ground by five o'clock, and so the first plan on their list—to go out for a celebratory meal—was easy to fulfil.
They fixed to meet at half past six at L'Alouette (Benito's) for an early supper. Since the place had been their starting point a month before, it felt as if they would be bringing things full-circle.
Foyle had asked Sam to drop him off at Steep Lane before she returned the Wolseley to the station. Now, as he walked downhill to meet her at the restaurant, he carried in his pocket an engagement ring bequeathed him by his mother on her death, some three years after Rosalind's.
The ring had always been his mother's pride and joy, and almost never left her finger in her lifetime. It was a single square-cut aquamarine on an 18-carat yellow gold shank, set in white gold and surrounded by fourteen smallish brilliant-cut diamonds. He'd been bewildered as to why the ring was left him in his mother's will. By rights, in his view, any jewellery should have gone directly to his sister, since Rosalind was, after all, already dead. Nevertheless, the will was quite particular about this one bequest.
Now he saw quite clearly that his mother, witnessing his desolation after Rosalind, had wanted desperately to see him marry once again.
As they sat waiting for their meal to be prepared, Foyle removed the symbol of his mother's love from its antique leather box and slipped it on Sam's finger. You get your wish now, Ma, he thought, and leant across to kiss his future wife.
Sam was dumbstruck with delight. It sparkled like the Pole Star on her finger—but the ring itself was just a little bit too large. She whispered, "Christopher, it's absolutely lovely, but I'm awfully afraid I'll lose it!"
Foyle was anxious not to let her think that anything about the ring was Rosalind's. "The ring came from my mother," he explained. "Intention was to get it resized, based on one of yours, as a surprise, in time for Christmas. Thing is, events have sort of run away with us today." Sam smiled and blushed at that. "But if you're worried," he added sympathetically, "we can keep it in the box for now." He pushed the box towards her across the table.
Sam resisted. "No! Oh, no! I want to wear it for tonight." Her fingers closed, possessively, to anchor the ring in place. "Let me keep it on till morning, then you can have it back tomorrow."
Foyle appraised the ring now sparkling on Sam's finger. It was indeed a thing of beauty, but nothing in comparison to the lovely woman wearing it. My fiancée. "Of course you'll keep it on, my darling," he reassured her, covering her hand with his and squeezing gently.
Benito had been watching closely the performance from the moment the couple had taken their seats. Il Commissario had particularly requested a secluded corner table, so certamente, there was special business going on.
Seeing Foyle place the ring on la signorina's finger, Benito beamed and clasped both hands up to his lips in vindication. Ecco! Bravi! He had very few customers tonight, but Mr Foyle was one who always drew his most particular attention. Here was a gentleman—un signore simpatico—who'd shown him both professional courtesy and humane understanding when his restaurant was attacked in 1940—and in such matters of personal obligation for a kindness rendered, Benito was a veritable elephant.
"Commissario Foyle e bella Signorina!" Benito felt himself on safe ground around this man, never hesitating to address him in the language of his birth. "I wish you both long lives, and happiness per il suo fidanzamento." He lifted Sam's be-ringed hand and pressed it to his lips. "We shall have wine and special music now for your engagement, Signorina."
Sam blushed all shades of pink at the attention, reaching out for Christopher with her free hand—the one Benito wasn't kissing!
Foyle, who had momentarily relaxed back in his chair, absorbing the scene with undisguised appreciation, was suddenly inspired to take a leaf out of Benito's book. And so Sam found herself strung between an Italian gentleman and her future husband, two men of similar ages, kissing both her hands in unison. Her face caught fire, but in the nicest way imaginable.
Benito excused himself to organise the promised wine and music. To him, these things were every bit as vital as the food he was about to serve, for though he'd made a living out of dishing up extruded-flour-paste served in sauce, his heart and soul belonged to opera.
Before the war Benito had amassed a large collection of the Italian Greats, recorded, for the most part, from performances at La Scala. After his family, whom he cherished with a fiercely Mediterranean affection, these recordings represented his most treasured possessions. And—oh!—how he had thanked the Lord ("Ti ringrazio, Signore, con tutto il cuore!"), that summer-night in '40 when the vandals who had smashed his windows failed to damage any of his precious shellac discs. Now it was Benito's pleasure to share this passion with his special guests.
Accordingly, Foyle and Sam soon found themselves well settled with a glass of Orvieto each (Benito dug into his special reserve supply), and regaled with Benito's favourite extracts from "La Boheme". They ate their main course to the strains of Gigli serenading Licia Albanesi with "O soave fanciulla" and "Che gelida manina" (which Sam really found to be a little overwrought as background music—to the point where she had to stifle giggles a few times).
"Shush, Sam," admonished Foyle. "He means well."
"I was rather hoping for some Bing…" she confided in a whisper.
After their meal, the couple's walk back up Steep Lane recalled the night one month before when they had made the choices that would change their futures. Foyle gathered Sam in close, and draped his overcoat, cape-like, around them both. She walked in front of him, her back against his arm, their hands linked across her middle. Foyle stroked his mother's—now Sam's—ring upon her finger, and enjoyed the most tremendous sense of pride.
Few people were around to see, and so they paused a few times on their way uphill, to warm each other's lips, and sample how it felt to be engaged.
The living room at Steep Lane was a welcome haven after the December chill outdoors. Settled on the rug before a glowing fire, Sam split her time between admiring her exquisite ring and rifling happily through the records stacked beside Foyle's agèd gramophone. "I say, Christopher, is there any Bing?" she asked hopefully.
Foyle winced. "Sam. Look at me. Crusty old widower; likes fishing and a quiet glass of single malt. Why would I own a Bing Crosby record? Unless, that is, you imagine I've been running a regular seduction operation in my living room?"
Sam had to smile at that. "Only asking," she shrugged. "Anyway, I read in Britannia & Eve that Mr Crosby loves to fish. You may have more in common with Bing than you think. In any case you ought to get some Bing… for future 'operations'."
Foyle raised an eyebrow, and considered Sam. She was a vision, leaning over his records, blonde hair tumbling round her shoulders. Hook, line and sinker, Foyle, he thought.
Given the woeful lack of what Sam deemed "good stuff" amongst her new fiancé's gramophone collection, they settled for whatever tunes the wireless had to offer. They sat, wrapped in each other's arms, through Alice Faye's soulful rendition of "You'll Never Know", which had Sam weeping happy tears on Christopher's lapel, and a chirpy little song called "Rumors are Flying" by the Andrews Sisters, which made them both look up and smile archly at each other.
As Foyle led his fiancée up to bed that night, there was a gentle self-assuredness about them as a couple, undaunted by the worst and trusting of the best. That night, their sense of combined strength permitted each of them expressions of desire that bore no overtones of guilt, or worry over unintended consequences. They tumbled into joyful acts of intimacy that tore a cry of "God in Heaven" from one lover's lips, and gave the other certainty that He was indeed up there looking down.
****** TBC******
More Author's Notes:
A 1938 recording of Beniamino Gigli and Licia Albanesi singing "O soave fanciulla" can be found on YouTube. I prefer Jussi Björling's 1941 version with Hjðrdis Shymberg, but Benito would have had different ideas!
It wasn't until 1951 that Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong recorded their famous version of Nick and Charles Kenny's song, "Gone Fishin'". In my universe, that record eventually finds its way into Foyle's collection. It's still not clear to me whether Foyle buys it for himself, or Sam buys it for him, but when I've worked out the answer, there'll be another story to write.
Good old YouTube will also see you right for Alice Faye's version of "You'll Never Know" and The Andrews Sisters' "Rumors are Flying". For the first of these, I have my mother to thank. She sang it to me as a child. For the second, thanks go to dancesabove, because I had never come across it before she shared it with me. Listen to "Rumors"to find out what tickled Sam and Foyle.
More soon.
GiuC