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 continues on Thursday 7th December 1944. While Foyle has had a busy day, tackling Mrs Harris, getting Sam's ring resized and buying a special marriage licence, Sam has her own hurdle to clear… and then our favourite couple have another obstacle to overcome together.

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:

Hasn't everybody heard of Shirley Temple? Ah, well. For our younger readers: Shirley Temple was a child star of the Thirties, renowned for her blonde ringlets and her appealing way with lollipops and old gentlemen (played by the likes of C. Aubrey Smith).

Thanks to dancesabove for wonderful suggestions.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Across the glass-topped counter, Mr Goldfarr held the dazzling ring beneath his loupe with fascinated interest, peering closely at the gems.

He spoke in precise but heavily-accented English. "A splendid piece indeed you have here, Mr Foyle. Vell vorth the vork you are proposing. Fortunately, gemstones such as these are tolerant of heat, and I am able to resize the ring vithout disturbance to the mount. It can be ready in two hours if you so vish. Do you have other calls to make today?"

"That would be very helpful, Mr Goldfarr. Yes, in fact there is another errand on my list. I'll come back after lunch, mid-afternoon, if that's acceptable?"

"Good, Mr Foyle. It vill be ready, I assure you."

"One more thing, Mr Goldfarr—I shall need a plain gold wedding-band to match this ring."

"Of course! Of course! So, for your wedding, mazel tov! I vill be pleased to show you a selection ven you come again this afternoon."

Once the shop door had closed behind his customer, Goldfarr returned to squinting at the blue-green beryl gem that formed the ring's attractive centrepiece.

For this age of ring, und blo-grin steyn, the origin is… Madagascar. Oy gevalt! He held the ring aloft, addressing it in admiration tinged with sadness. "A thing of rarest beauty, though. You come to me from where the British Fascists vont to send my people. A little warmer than this 'Isle off Man' that Mr Churchill favoured for my holiday in '41... Feh!"

...

Well, that was fairly simple. Foyle paused on the pavement outside Goldfarr's and stuck his hands into his pockets. Now the "other call" he was about to make involved a special marriage licence…

Chapter 10

Thursday 7th December 1944 (mid afternoon)

Division of responsibility, Sam reminded herself with a hefty pinch of pluck. She and Christopher had come to an agreement about such things the previous evening: he would be in charge of telling Milner, and her job was to telephone her father and arrange for them both to visit Lyminster that weekend.

Christopher had grasped his particular nettle, and Paul was in possession of the facts—well maybe not the full facts, but certainly the pressing ones. Now her turn had come.

Ensconced in Christopher's office with his telephone and her rampaging nerves for company, Sam took a ragged breath and steeled herself for the fray. At least that nasty smell from earlier had cleared. She imagined the offending rat had found a final burst of strength, and crawled away to finish rotting in a nearby drain.

Sam lifted the receiver, and spoke into the mouthpiece to ask for a connection. A short wait, followed by eight stomach-churning rings, and her father answered.

"Daddy? This is Sam… Hello. I'm calling you from Hastings… Yes, I'm perfectly all right. Is—is Mummy well?... And you?... Oh dear! She hasn't, has she?... Not another headache?... Oh—so not too bad then... Splendid. Listen—I'll be coming over Saturday to see you. And—um—bringing someone with me…Yes, it's someone that you know. You met him when you came to Hastings… Christopher Foyle… My boss, Mr Foyle… Um, well… because he'd like to talk to you and Mummy… About me… Oh nonono! Don't worry, no. It's not the sack!… Nor a promotion, either—well, not in so many w— I think it would be better to explain things when we come… Um. No, I can't explain things now… A little complicated… No, you shouldn't worry… Look—I have to dash. At work, you see… No, he isn't actually here at the moment… Well, he's out with Sergeant Milner… "

Ooh! you fibber, Samantha Stewart, but Daddy so approves of Paul, that's guaranteed to throw him off the scent.

"Yes, Mr Foyle does actually go out without me sometimes, Daddy… Till Saturday, then… Right-oh. Yes, I'll take good care… My love to Mummy… Cheerio for now."

Oh my goodness. Phew! Sam leant across Christopher's desk, head grasped between her hands, and let her mind conjure the Lyminster confrontation almost certainly in store for the weekend. Already, after a mere five-minute telephone conversation with her father, her brow had broken out in beads of sweat. So how much worse would things be when she faced him in the flesh? Her waking nightmare had her standing next to Christopher in her parents' sitting room, drenched in perspiration, whilst her father scowled at them in disapproval. Christopher had jolly well better be prepared to do the talking on Saturday.

Friday 8th December 1944

Friday passed off quietly—too quietly, to Sam's way of thinking. Christopher was clearly keeping something to himself. At first she'd toyed with the idea that their impending trip to Lyminster accounted for his subdued demeanour, but the grim set of his features had really started on Thursday evening, following an interview with Brooke…

On Thursday afternoon, Christopher had barrelled back into the station in a perfectly good mood, with her lovely ring, properly resized (Sam was so excited now that she could safely slip it on—outside of work, of course), and arrangements for their special marriage licence well in hand. But then, around six, she had spotted Sergeant Brooke emerging white-faced from Christopher's office. After that, there was barely a smile to be had out of either of them. And that was most unusual for the traditionally unsinkable Brookie.

She imagined that the two of them had had a sort of falling out, but whatever was the cause of it, Christopher would not be drawn. "Administrative headaches. Nothing to worry about, Sweetheart," he'd told her. So she reasoned that it was disciplinary, and let it lie.

Saturday 9th December 1944

Foyle couldn't, in good conscience, justify the use of police petrol for a personal errand to Lyminster, and so he and Sam made their way to Hastings station on Saturday morning, and prepared to board the west-bound train.

For much of the journey they had the compartment to themselves, taking the window-seats across from each other and enjoying the view both inside the carriage and out.

There was a brief interruption to this chaste-but-intimate arrangement, when a portly, deaf old gentleman got in at Brighton, and then out again at Worthing. In the intervening miles, he took a shine to Sam, congratulating Foyle on his extremely lovely daughter. There was little point correcting him, as they'd have had to do so at a volume fit to shatter glass.

When finally the old chap rose to leave the train, he doffed his hat and bent to offer Sam a pear-drop—which she took with eager thanks because she hadn't tasted one in ages. Foyle placed a finger on his brow and brooded, waiting for the door to close behind Sam's departing benefactor. Once the man was gone he yanked Sam across the compartment onto his knee, and kissed her thoroughly, causing her to bolt her sweet.

"Oh, I say!" she spluttered, batting at her chest. "Honestly, you might have waited till I'd finished. I was quite enjoying that."

"No sweets between meals, Shirley Temple. Spoils your appetite," Foyle growled, "and has a very dangerous effect on mine."

That little interlude aside, the trip was uneventful.

Even as the Reverend Iain Stewart stood watching through his study window, the mode of his daughter's arrival at the vicarage set alarm-bells ringing in his head. On foot from where the connecting bus had dropped her, with that man—her "boss"—one step behind her, coming up the path. No sign of the police car, which would have spelt official business. So this was unofficial then? And unofficial business involving his daughter and this Mr Foyle could only mean uncomfortable business, in his view.

The second thing that niggled with Reverend Stewart was the air of studied ease between Samantha and this man. Was that a proprietorial hand placed on his daughter's lower back as her companion ushered her through the gate? Stewart's sense of fairness chided him to not prejudge the situation. Still, it was a barely-smiling man who held his front door open for this pre-announced, yet strangely unexpected, couple.

"Hello, my dear, how are you?" Stewart bent to kiss his daughter on the cheek in welcome. Sam smiled, reaching up to touch her father's shoulder as he leant down to embrace her. Her left hand was encased within a leather glove.

Smiling tautly, Stewart turned towards his other visitor, and took a steely grip on Foyle's extended hand. He managed a terse "Mr Foyle—we meet again."

Iain Stewart was not a thespian style of cleric; he was disinclined towards theatrics, or dissembling for the sake of harmony. His parishioners were used to knowing what the Reverend Stewart felt, since, as a rule, his thoughts were plainly written on his face.

Nor did Sam's father's tight reserve escape his visitor. He obviously has his own suspicions, conceded Foyle. There's little point in spinning out the tension here.

Released from Stewart's iron grasp, Foyle parked his aching hand inside his trouser-pocket. "Aah—Reverend Stewart, not to beat about the bush, I wonder if we might please have a private word about the reason for this visit?"

Iain Stewart nodded curtly, and placed a gentle arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Well now, Samantha, Mother's resting upstairs, feeling peaky. Would you be kind and take her up a cup of tea? A pot's already brewing in the kitchen."

Samantha turned a brief but anxious gaze on Christopher. He nodded his encouragement for her to leave.

This merest gesture registered with Stewart. Since when were his instructions to his daughter subject to endorsement by another man? The reverend's expression, when he shifted his attention back to Foyle, was braced between annoyance and foreboding. A hand went out to indicate a doorway to his left. "Indeed. I think, in that case, we should step into my study."

"So, what brings you to my home today, Mr Foyle?" Iain Stewart perched against his desk and gestured distractedly towards an armchair behind his visitor, avoiding eye contact.

"Short answer is 'your daughter', Reverend Stewart." Foyle took a seat, and brushed his hands across his knees. "I have to tell you that Samantha and I are engaged to be married."

Behind the glassy stare he now directed at his guest, a thousand questions flooded Iain Stewart's mind. The first to surface, in a semi-whisper, was "When and how, precisely, did this happen?"

"Samantha agreed to be my wife on Wednesday," Foyle answered evenly. "As to the 'how'? A trickier question to address…" He felt a pang of sympathy for this man, so clearly shaken by the news he'd just imparted. "But I shall help with any details that I can..."

In the next moment, Stewart cleared his throat and found his normal voice again. "Excuse my asking, Mr Foyle. How old are you?"

"I'm forty-nine. I shall be fifty in the spring."

"Then almost twice my daughter's age, as you must realise."

"Yes, I am aware of that," Foyle countered patiently. "Samantha has been kind enough to indicate it doesn't weigh against me."

Stewart nodded. "So… am I to understand that you're a widower?" And not, he prayed in earnest, please God, NOT divorced.

"Correct, yes. Over ten years now. And in that time, until Samantha—you'll excuse my candour—I can tell you there has been no other woman in my… in my life."

Stewart pursed his lips and mulled that over. "In which case, Mr Foyle,"—he fixed his guest with a sharp stare—"I should be curious to know why you've elected to disturb the equilibrium…?"

Foyle formed a half-smile at the reverend's blunt line of questioning. "The honest truth? I'd always regarded that particular part of me laid to rest with my late wife, Rosalind. But Samantha? In the time that I have known her, she has broadened my horizons."

A startled look possessed Reverend Stewart's face, but Foyle persevered with his explanation. "Sam… has been warmth and light to me, from almost the first moment that she joined my staff at Hastings. A ray of sunshine on the ruins, if you will. I love your daughter, Reverend Stewart. And I can't conceive of any sort of happy life without her."

Stewart's features softened. The sincerity of feeling expressed by this man was undeniable. But his own concern was, first and last, for his daughter. "And are you confident Samantha returns your feelings freely? Without, perhaps, being influenced by her respect for you, or awe of your position as her superior?"

Foyle stifled a smile at what was, after all, a natural assumption. The idea of Sam in awe of him of late, or indeed ever, was frankly comical.

"Reverend Stewart, Samantha is mature and independent in her choices. Although I hope, and trust, that she does respect me, as indeed I do her, I detect no trace of awe in our relationship. Nor would she let such matters interfere with honesty of feeling. From all the evidence, she loves me just as I do her."

The Reverend Stewart frowned to hear a term that struck him as dispassionate. "You speak of love like a policeman, Mr Foyle."

Foyle mentally reviewed his terminology, and found himself agreeing with the reverend's concern. "I apologise for the inept turn of phrase. Fact is, I'd sooner leave the Force than let it throw up any obstacle to the plans Samantha and I share."

Stewart considered this admission, concluding, in the light of it, that there was little more he wished to ask for now—at any rate, no questions that he wished to put to strangers. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr Foyle. I assume you came here for my blessing, and Samantha's mother's?"

Foyle nodded, adding gently. "It would mean a lot to Sam. And to me, also."

Stewart's expression closed him out. "Then you must understand that I cannot give it before speaking to my daughter."

Foyle rose, accepting that he'd been dismissed. However, he was not about to let Sam's father think his withheld blessing equated to "permission denied". "I entirely understand, Reverend Stewart, provided you're aware that our intentions are both serious and determined—and most definitely not about to be derailed."

Stewart heard the message loud and clear, and shot him a sharp look. Both men stood in silence, hands in pockets, mirroring each other in a kind of standoff.

Foyle was the first to speak, and did so more out of sympathy than in capitulation. "If you'll allow me, I'll collect Sam from upstairs and bring her down to you."

Stewart heaved a sigh, directing his gaze out of the window. "Yes, very well, then, if you'd be so kind."

As Foyle left the room, Sam's father dropped his chin upon his chest in deliberation. The suddenness of this. There had to be a reason, but he didn't want to hear it from the lips of some outsider.

Upstairs, in her mother's bedroom, Sam was having quite a different conversation.

"… and so the doctor says it might be something called the meno-pause. It means my body's shutting shop on reproduction. Not that I'll be missing that particular aspect, Dear—Lord knows, once was enough for me, though you're delightful—bless you, Darling!—but I do object to hormones in conspiracy to give me headaches and hot flushes at their whim. Your father says these things are sent to try us, but I hardly think he'd be so patient if God put him in a woman's body on the cusp of fifty. If ever that occurred, I'd rather like to be a fly on the wall."

Sam smiled, a little sadly, at the prospect of upsetting what was obviously a show of cheeriness and fortitude. "Mummy… what would you say if…"

"Spit it out then, Darling. It's not as if we see you very often anyway these days, and here you are quite suddenly, in winter—not even Christmas—with a gentleman in tow. And a rather nicely turned-out one, from what I spied of him on your way up the path. Perhaps a little more matoor than I would've guessed your tastes…"

Sam quietly presented her left hand, ring-side up, to her mother.

"Samantha! Oh, well isn't this a bombshell!" She raised her daughter's hand to peer more closely. "But, ohmygoodnessme, that's quite the splendidring."

"His name is Christopher. You will have heard me mention him as Mr Foyle, my boss, from Hastings."

"My darling! But the lightning speed of this engagement—not one single peep before today…" Samantha's mother dragged her eyes up from the gorgeous ring and scrutinised Sam out of the corner of her eye. "Samantha—am I to suppose you've opened up a baby business, just as mine is shutting down?"

Sam, who already had been welling up a little, sniffed and nodded, wetly. "You see things very clearly, Mummy."

"You love him? Or you're marrying him because of this?"

"I love him absolutely, and with all my heart."

"Oh, in that case, I see no problem. I should like to have a word or two with him, though. If only to find out what on earth has swept you, oh-so-literally, off your feet and into motherhood…?"

Sam couldn't quell a giggle. "Mummy, honestly!"

Foyle overheard a smattering of the goings-on inside the room before he raised his hand to knock the bedroom door. From what he gathered, then, he could expect a rather warmer welcome from Sam's mother than the one he'd been afforded by the Reverend Stewart. It was therefore with a charmingly disarming smile that he answered an airy "Come in" from Sam's mother, and stepped into the room.

Delighted, Sam rushed to grasp him by the hand as he entered, and pulled her prize towards the window and her mother. "Mummy, this is Christopher, my fiancé."

Sam's mother rose from her chaise longue to greet this rather dapper gentleman her daughter seemed so proud of. "So pleased to know you, Christopher. My name is Geraldine. Samantha is besotted, it appears."

Samantha blushed. Foyle quirked a self-effacing grin. "Without wishing to impugn your daughter's taste, Mrs Stewart, I can't see that I merit such uncritical devotion." Sam leant across and whispered in his ear, "Yes, you do."

"Oh, nonsense! Call me Geraldine. I hear you plan to marry shortly. Kindly don't do so without inviting me."

Foyle smiled at Sam's outspoken charmer of a mother. She was quite obviously the engaging, open, sociable half of Sam. And Iain Stewart accounted for the serious, reflective side.

"In point of fact, we were very much hoping you would be present at the ceremony," said Foyle. "Next Saturday, in fact, at Hastings Register Office."

"A registrar? Oh, dearie me. And what does Iain have to say about that?"

"Afraid I haven't told him yet. Your husband isn't certain he approves, and wants to see Samantha in his study first." He aimed a pointed look at Sam.

"Oh, does he now?" Geraldine's features assumed a resolute expression. "Samantha, trot downstairs, and put your gruff old bear of a father straight. I'll be down to referee in a few moments. In fact, let's say exactly fifteen minutes, shall we?"

"Thank you so much, Mummy." Sam planted a kiss on her mother's cheek, then Christopher's, and departed.

Geraldine Stewart resumed her seat, and fixed Foyle with two chocolate pools of eyes that were the very image of her daughter's. She saw a man barely older than herself, with natural charm, and rather quietly attractive. A little thin on top, perhaps, but really, if one insisted on hair these days, what with the market so challenged…

Geraldine leant forwards, indicating an armchair at the side of the window. "Now then, Christopher," she said brightly, "a brief and potted history of yourself, that starts out who-knows-where and culminates with Sam?"

Sam sneaked downstairs and skulked around the kitchen for a full eight minutes before knocking on her father's study door. She entered when he called, and found him perched against his desk, slump-shouldered, looking miserable indeed.

This needn't be all that tricky, she reasoned. I certainly won't mention that I'm expecting. Mummy won't tell him, and if I do own up, it will look bad for Christopher.

But Iain Stewart had had a full ten minutes on his own to work up a scenario. And, having done so, he was not about to leave his daughter in any doubt about her options, even if expressing them entailed revealing all his worst suspicions.

His grey-blue eyes were gentle as they alighted on Samantha. "Darling, please be honest with me. Do you really love this man? He is so much older than you are. I wouldn't want you to feel you had to marry him... for any reason other than a genuine and deep attachment. You'll always have a home here with your mother and me, no matter what your… future condition or circumstance."

Sam blushed from neck to eyebrows and fidgeted—part of it, at least, embarrassment at having taken her father for a fool. He ran a parish full of miserable sinners, after all. She should have known better than to underestimate him.

"Samantha?" Reverend Stewart read his daughter's face in that instant, and drew a hand unsteadily across his mouth. "Oh, Sammy, then it's true! How could he?"

Hands plunged back in his pockets, Stewart stared up at the ceiling. Dear Father, please don't let my daughter see me weep.

Samantha saw the warning signs and moved in to console her father, tugging at his hidden hand. "Daddy! No! You really mustn't think that way. It wasn't… Christopher was not… Look, I was every bit as much to blame. I'm sorry. You must be so disappointed, but the plain fact is, we love each other. Circumstances ran away with us, but never once in a direction we regretted, even if the timing was all wrong. Don't judge us harshly, and especially not Christopher."

"I wanted better for you, Sam," he fretted softly.

"NO." Samantha's voice was firm. "I could never have a better man than Christopher. Give us a chance to show you this is better than it looks." She sought in vain to pull his gaze down from the ceiling.

Iain Stewart was still evading Sam's attempts to smooth things over when the study door flew open in a blaze of Geraldine, with Foyle as silent retinue.

"What's this, then? Iain, kindly stop this instant. Emotion really isn't what they need from you right now."

Iain Stewart dragged his eyes to Geraldine's, and all but sobbed. "Well, what do you expect? My daughter's carrying some strange man's child."

He turned, addressing Foyle with swimming eyes. "You think I should pretend I'm happy, Mr Foyle? How could…how could you? She was in your care?"

Sam interjected, "Daddy…" but her father bit his lip.

Foyle reached and drew Sam to him. His tone was conciliatory but unapologetic. "She was also in my heart, Reverend Stewart. If I could take it back—this awkward circumstance—I would. But not this marriage. Not our future. Not the love."

He paused, looked down at Sam, took breath, and carried on. "I'd hope in time that you will see beyond this situation. And though it pains me more than anything if I have hurt Sam, or have caused her difficulty, either personally, or with her family, I am nothing less than overjoyed that she has promised to be my wife." The eyes that looked down into Sam's were aglow with tenderness.

Stewart was back in conference with the study ceiling. As Sam had moved to stand with Christopher, it was now up to Geraldine to pull her husband down once and for all.

Perching next to him against his desk, Geraldine slipped an arm around his waist, and peered up at his face. "Iain… for Sam's sake, now… Enough."

The Reverend Stewart hauled his eyes back down to meet his wife's. For several moments longer he gazed into them in silence. Finally he heaved a ragged sigh and said, "As you advise, my love. For Sam's sake, then."

Sam's eyes locked with her mother's in a look of undisguised relief, her cheeks puffed out like a trumpet-player's. Some tension still suffused the room, but she took comfort that no loss of life or limb had been sustained. The men were even looking at each other now, if somewhat warily.

Stewart rose from his perch and approached his future son-in-law. "Mr Foyle?"

"Please, call me Christopher."

"Very well. And you must call me Iain. So, Christopher, it falls to you now to take good care of my daughter." Stewart reached to stroke his daughter's cheek, then offered Foyle his hand.

"You may be assured of it, Iain." This time Foyle noted that the Stewart handshake was considerably less punishing.

"Well that's all settled, then!" chimed Geraldine brightly. "Now, if nobody minds, I think we should decamp to the sitting room and have a proper family chat over a fresh pot of tea. My head is splitting again." She placed herself deliberately at the study door to usher people out, and down the hall.

Once the men had gone ahead, Sam voiced concern about her mother's returning headache, but Geraldine resumed her normal chatter. "Oh, Darling! Don't you worry about me; I'll muddle through. Your father's such a fusspot, but the only thing I really need when I'm like this is rest," her voice dropped to a whisper, "and perhaps—forgive my lack of charity—just a little holiday from the worthy ladies of the church?"

Sam sniggered, but her mother hadn't finished yet. "D'you know, the doctor offered me some snake-oil remedy for meno-pause? Distilled from pregnant women's urine, as I understand. I looked it up in Iain's new Britannica. Sometimes, my dear, I really think the modern world's gone raving mad. I flushed it down the lavatory, of course… "

Some hours later, with a lot of ground both covered and uncovered, the hastily-formed family-unit parted amicably on the doorstep of the vicarage.

Geraldine took her daughter in her arms. "Take care of yourself, my darling. See you in a week for the grand occasion, and I expect you'll call us on the telephone between-times?" She leant and placed a kiss on Christopher's cheek. His colour rose at this unabashed show of intimacy from his soon-to-be mother-in-law, no older, he suspected, than himself.

Iain Stewart's wary scrutiny of Foyle had softened as the day wore on, observing, as he did, the deep attachment demonstrated by his daughter. He had no option but to admit that this Christopher was modest, witty and egalitarian in his views. But most of all, devotion to Samantha shone through his every look and gesture. On balance, he imagined he and Foyle would rub along quite nicely, given time.

The Reverend Stewart kissed Samantha as she took her leave, then held his hand out one final time to Foyle. "Christopher," he said. "My earlier misgivings notwithstanding, it's clear to me you make Samantha happy. Next Saturday, I hope, will be the first of many celebrations, and perhaps in due course you will bring my grandchild back to Lyminster to be christened here?"

"Thank you, Iain. I'm sure that none of us would have it any other way."

On the train back to Hastings, Foyle and Sam leant exhausted heads against the window of the rail compartment.

"Well, that was jolly hairy," offered Sam.

"Only half the battle, too," added Foyle. "I wrote to Andrew, care of Debden. Haven't the foggiest idea how long the letter will take to reach him, and haven't heard from him for six weeks. Malta was the talk, last time I heard. I doubt he could get leave at such short notice, anyway—to come over for the wedding."

"Assuming that he'd want to…" supplied Sam.

"Well, yes, assuming that…"

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

More Author's Notes:

If you think the "pregnant women's pee" remedy for menopause sounds bad, its precursor was the product of distilled horse-urine.

Oh, but never fear! Progress has been made since the '40s: these days, pregnant women's pee is used for weight-loss, and for HRT we're back (thanks for info Kailin!) to mare's urine again. Don't try this at home. LOL.

Drug testing back then was seriously flawed. You had to be wary what you took—indeed, that's good advice at any time, but sometimes people make the right decisions for the wrong reasons. My mother had lost her first baby to a botched delivery during the war, in 1942, but then, in 1959, she became pregnant with me. Knowing that she was persistently ill with morning-sickness, her helpful family doctor, who had known her all her life, turned up, excited, on her doorstep with a new "wonder drug" to combat nausea. "New, from Germany," he explained.

Mum discussed it with my father. "Go on, take it if it's going to make you feel better," he urged. She ummed and ahhed, then flushed it down the loo.

It was Thalidomide.

I asked her later why she hadn't tried it for a while, at least. "From Germany," she said. That was the legacy of the war for you.

More soon.

GiuC