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 Wednesday 6th December 1944. Sam now realises she is expecting a baby. She and Foyle both know this and have just become engaged, though they have not announced it publicly.
Brooke is about to be rumbled.
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:
Foyle-o-philes and regular readers of the fics will know that "PWP" is wartime slang for Pregnant Without Permission. Sam refers to the term herself in Eagle Day when she is out for tea with her father. So don't confuse it with the fanfic usage Porn Without Plot ;0). This is still a T-rated fic, free from any episodes of moral turpitude. (Such episodes have been ruthlessly excised from the story… and published as separate M-rated fics).
Constable Davis belongs to TartanLioness.
dancesabove waved her magic wand over this first.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
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.
Chapter 8
Wednesday, 6th December 1944
Brooke stood outside Foyle's office door and knocked, wondering what the old man wanted now. Summoned by Foyle's usual "Come", he turned the knob and stepped inside.
Foyle was sitting at his desk, his chair pushed back a little way. He was examining something in his lap, but from Brookie's angle the object was obscured by the desk-top.
Foyle looked up. "Sergeant Brooke? I'd appreciate an explanation of THIS?" He raised the article into Brooke's line of view.
Brookie blanched. Foyle was holding in his hand the very book he, Brookie, had been using to record the lads' bets on developments in Foyle and Sam's relationship.
It was open to a page headed, in Brooke's own handwriting:
The Old Man and the Tartan Skirt
and divided, beneath the title, into three carefully-ruled columns:
Col 1: ODDS
Col 2: OUTCOME
Col 3: PUNTERS & STAKES
Individual punters in column three were designated by their initials, followed by the number of ciggies they had staked, neatly enclosed in brackets.
As Brooke knew all too well, the page was populated as followed:
4-7 On — Dinner and a Film — six bets
20-1 — Overnight at a Hotel — two bets
40-1 — Overnight at His Place — one bet
60-1 — PWP (up-the-duff) — no takers
100-1 — Marriage and Children — no takers
On finding the book earlier that morning, and realising its less-than-subtle significance, Foyle had immediately scanned the third column for the initials P.M., but found no instances. His relief had been palpable. Thank Christ for Milner's loyalty, at least!
Hearing no response from Brooke, Foyle scratched his head with his little finger and fixed Brooke with a pained and questioning expression. "I suppose you—um—think this is funny?"
"Er. On reflection, p'raps not, Sir." Brooke was sweating now.
"No. Perhaps not." Foyle paused and rubbed his chin, honing his rapier wit for the kill.
"Well, Mister Brooke, you know… you're lucky that I'm not a betting man? because, if I WERE? I'd personally be having a FIVER on hundred-to-one Marriage and Children? And believe me, Sergeant, the payout on THAT bet. would. break. your. bloody. bank." Foyle regarded Brooke evenly, sucking his teeth. Then he folded his arms and awaited some reaction.
Brookie's face was scarlet. "It… was just a bit of fun, Sir... No harm meant. We all respect you. And we lo– we like Miss Stewart."
More was needed. Brookie drew himself up tall. "I'm sincerely sorry, Sir."
Foyle digested this, assessing Brooke, and sighed.
"Well, you know what? So am I. Because this?" he waved the book and grimaced, "is my. own. fault."
Foyle continued. "'S'far as I'm concerned?"—he tilted his head—"Do your worst. I deserve it." He paused. "But does Miss Stewart?" He fixed widened eyes on Brooke and waited.
Brookie crumpled. "No, Sir. She's a lovely girl, Sir. Sorry, Sir. We're a coarse lot."
"Indeed you are. This. stops. right. here." Foyle threw the book down on the desk, then turned from Brooke and gazed out of the window. "That'll be all."
Brooke sensed that he'd been handed a reprieve. "Yes, Sir." He turned to leave the room, then halted on an afterthought. "Oh, and Sir? Congratulations. You're a lucky man."
Foyle wasn't about to let himself be buttered up. "Well, so are you, Sergeant. Now just get out of my sight. And nothing you think you may have gleaned from this conversation goes any further without my specific instruction."
"Er. Right you are, Sir. Thank you, Mr Foyle."
When Brooke had left, Foyle squinted at the columns on the page again and did a calculation. His chops twitched:
40-1—Overnight at His Place—E.D.(2)
By his calculation, Brooke owed Constable Davis 80 Woodbines. Plus original stake, that made 82.
…
Foyle left his office in search of Sam, and found her sitting in the station kitchen, dabbing lightly at her eyes.
Before her sat an open, shallow, fancy box which had obviously once contained chocolates. It was packed solid with—what the devil?—sheep's eyes, neatly organised so that the irises all faced upwards. The whole grisly arrangement had been artistically interspersed with sprigs of parsley for effect.
Sam was holding in her hand a neatly-folded landscape note, which Foyle assumed had been delivered with the box. Her chin was trembling as she fought back tears.
Foyle sat beside her, and covered her hand with his. "What's the matter, Sam? May I see that?"
Sniffling briefly, she handed him the piece of paper in a flurry of embarrassment.
Foyle flipped the note up with his thumb to read inside. One sentence, in elaborate copperplate script:
"Samantha Stewart, all eyes are on you."
Foyle was cautious. The note was infantile—the stuff of playground pranks. Some heartless types might even call it witty. But that was not the point; it hadn't gone down well with Sam, and though he had a fair idea of what he thought it meant, he needed to hear Samantha confirm his opinion first.
"Um, Sam? Would you like to tell me what you think this means?"
"It means they know that I'm expecting, and they're counting months," she told him quietly. Then she reached and flipped the note right back. On the inside page, opposite the writing, was a drawing of a stork with an infant slung inside a cloth and hanging from its beak.
Foyle stared, his colour deepening with annoyance. "Um, right. Well. Leave it with me, then." He patted her hand, and rose, a wave of irritation—anger even—building. Sam had been maliciously offended, and responsibility to address the problem lay with him.
Grimly, Foyle gathered up the note, the box of eyeballs, and its lid, and strode out of the kitchen.
"Sergeant Brooke? I'd like to see you in my office? Now, if you wouldn't mind?" His tone was even. His expression promised Trouble.
Seconds later, Brooke was standing to attention facing Foyle, and waiting for his head to roll.
Foyle pushed the note and box of eyeballs sharply across his desk towards the sergeant. The DCS's voice was low, but Brookie heard it as a roar.
"Sergeant Brooke, you have tried my patience sorely and are THIS close to suspension from duty." He held up thumb and forefinger one short inch apart.
Quick as a flash from Brooke: "This one's nothing to do with me, Sir, I swear." Brooke had quickly sneaked a glance down at the gruesome package, registering the opened note and eyeballs. Now he stood ramrod straight, head up, eyes focussed on a distant point above Foyle's head.
Foyle wasn't even half-impressed. "In happier times? I would indulge you, Brooke. A sense of humour is a blessing in this job. But today my milk of human kindness has. run. dry, and my patience has been tested to its limit. Therefore:" Foyle pursed his lips, took breath and launched into a list of interrogative-imperatives: "I want you to FIND OUT who did this? I want you PERSONALLY to vet ANY further parcels delivered to this station for Miss Stewart? And I expect you to report back to ME." He paused and drew another deep breath. "You may telephone me AT home, where I shall be. for the rest. of today."
He swept out of his office, picking up his coat and hat en route, and slammed the door behind him, leaving Brooke shut in there with the eyeballs.
…
Once the initial shock of being carpeted twice in one day had faded slightly, Brooke re-checked his bouncy ego, found it still intact, and set about wondering how exactly he was meant to catch the culprit. Tricky one, he thought. Different if this had been the work of one of the lads; he could always wring things out of them, but he knew for certain that it wasn't.
And how did he know? Easy, that—the evidence was down in black and white: not one of 'em had fancied a punt on PWP, even though they were only betting ciggies. "Nah. Waste of a good fag, mate. He'll be firin' blanks at 'is age," one had said, and the others had just snorted "Ger! Give over."
Brookie assessed the box of eyeballs staring up at him and had a minor brainwave—as you do, when you're a budding sleuth, he preened. Gathering up the evidence, he walked out of Foyle's office and made his way across the station hallway.
Constable Davis was manning the front desk in Brooke's absence, and, business being slow, was killing time extracting the detritus from his right nostril. It was quite a detailed excavation-project.
"Davis, knock it off, will ya? How many butcher's shops we got round here? Make us a list."
"Sarge." Out popped the finger and reached down to snag a pen.
…
Foyle found Sam still sitting in the station kitchen, looking miserable.
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and bent down to her eye-level, his own eyes crinkled in a smile. "Come on, Miss Stewart, get your coat. We're going home."
"Christopher, I really don't feel in a state to drive." Sam felt pathetic to be thrown out of sorts by something quite so childish, but that box of offal had been such a calculatedly mean gesture, she was genuinely struggling to remain composed.
"No, I don't suppose you do feel up to it. But we're going anyway," Foyle told her firmly. In his one hand, he held the keys to the Wolseley. With the other he gestured towards the coat rack.
Sam's face took on a baffled and uncomfortable expression as she rose to get her coat.
Outside, she slowed, and started to protest as they approached the car. "Christopher, really, we oughtn't to. I don't think I'll be safe…"
"You're safe with me."
To Sam's bewilderment, Foyle ushered her across the yard towards the passenger side of the Wolseley and pulled open the front door for her to climb in. Once she was seated, he walked round to the driver's side and took his seat behind the wheel.
Sam turned and watched him, agape, as he threw the car expertly into gear and pulled out of the station yard. And her astounded gaze was on him all the way back to Steep Lane.
…
Brookie had gone off shift that afternoon, and used his own time to pay visits to the local butchers. He did so in full uniform for effect, and traded on it as a conversation-starter.
Each butcher in turn was treated to Brooke's cheeky-chappie act: "Yes, I lodge just over in St Leonards—that's where I usually do me shopping—but I'm based here at Hastings under Mr Foyle—d'you know him?"
At the first two shops, he just got a simple "no" to that question. Then bingo! at the Harris shop: "Ah yes indeed—we know Mr Foyle very well, don't we Gladys? Shops here regularly."
Brookie moved in quickly. "Oh, so p'raps you know Miss Stewart, too, then? Drives for Mr Foyle."
Brookie watched for reactions from them both. Harris's response was open and uncomplicated: "I don't think I remember her, no. Do you, Gladys?"
His wife seemed to be enjoying some variety of private joke. "Oh yes, we've had Miss Stewart in here. Poor girl, she couldn't seem to hold on to her breakfast last time." Mrs Harris couldn't hide a smirk.
It was enough for Brookie. The old bat was rumbled. This news was going back to Foyle.
…
Back at the station with a pound of tripe, four ounces of sausage, a pot of dripping and some minced-beef to his name, a weary Brookie slapped the packets down onto the desk in front of Davis.
"Been shopping, 'ave ya Sarge?" Davis asked, unnecessarily.
"What's it look like, genius?" drawled Brooke. A burning question struck him. "Davis, what the 'ell do people do with tripe?" He opened up the packet for inspection and poked suspiciously at the rubbery white contents.
"Tripe and onions, Sarge," said Davis, proud at last to have some knowledge he could share. "Well, I should know. Me muvver comes from Lancashire."
"You'd better take this bloody stuff to 'er, then." Brooke pushed the open parcel at him. "Explains a lot if she's been feedin' you this rubbish all your life."
…
Only minutes later, Brooke was on the phone to Foyle. "The sheep's eyes came from Harris's sir. It's got to be. I don't think he 'ad anything to do with it. He didn't know Miss Stewart—looked quite honest when I asked him. But she did. Smirked like anything when I mentioned Miss Stewart. I reckon it was 'er. No doubt about it."
Foyle heard him out calmly. "Hmm. I see. Well, wrap them up tightly and leave the packet in my office, would you? I'll deal with it tomorrow. And, um, Sergeant? Thanks."
He hung up the receiver, stood, and thought things quietly through. That day when he'd been shopping after Sam and he… Sam's ration book—and later, she'd been ill outside the butcher's shop. He cursed himself a fool.
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
The sheep's eyes aren't as far-fetched as they might sound. They're based on a true incident. Details to come in a later Author's Note.
…
Okay, so the scene with Foyle jumping into the car and driving them home is a shameless borrowing of the classic coup de Foyle with Milner and Edie in "All Clear". But it's such a gem, we should all be allowed to use it for our own ends at least once.
…
More soon.
GiuC