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 Battle of Lyminster has been fought, and Sam's parents are won over. Constable Davis covers himself with glory and makes problems for Foyle.
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 still belongs to TartanLioness (nobody else would have him).
During wartime, burglaries were on the increase, and Sir Philip Game, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, became so concerned, he personally urged people not to keep furs at home: "They are no doubt warmer, and look nicer than a tweed coat, but a live dog is better than a dead lion." I can't imagine that his sage advice made much difference to the dress habits of the working classes! But in those days, a police commissioner didn't answer to that sort of person.
Colonel Blimp was a cartoon-character from the pen of David Low, appearing in the London Evening Standard. Elderly and pompous, Blimp was a satire on the reactionary opinions of the British establishment.
In the 1943 film, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger poked fun at—but also displayed some of the humanity of—just such a character, played by the wonderfully subtle Roger Livesey. Deborah Kerr plays three different roles in the film, one being that of the colonel's MTC driver, and her uniform is just like Sam's, except for the style of hat (considerably more fetching).
Thanks to dancesabove for comments and suggestions.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
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…"
Chapter 11
Events leading up to Monday, 11th December 1944
By Monday, and in spite of best intentions, a scandalous rumour about DCS Foyle and his young woman driver had filtered up to Headquarters. The news had broken thus:
The previous Thursday afternoon, while Brookie was otherwise engaged, Constable Davis had sneaked a peek inside the chocolate box he'd seen his sergeant bringing out of the boss's office.
Davis's motive was plain old greed. He hadn't tasted chocolate for ages. Though he didn't realise this, his mother had been keeping back his ration and eating it herself. Mrs Davis was of the private belief that allowing chocolate to her lummox of a son was a waste of decent food—tantamount to feeding donkeys strawberries. So she'd simply told him there was none left in the shop, and he'd accepted that.
Davis was therefore licking his lips in anticipation of a treat when he lifted the lid off what he took to be a fancy box of Cadbury's Milk Tray.
It was something of a come-down, then, to find inside the box six rows of eyeballs, interspersed with parsley-sprigs.
Downcast though Davis was to find no chocolate there, his curiosity was piqued enough to unfold and read the note inside:
"Samantha Stewart, all eyes are on you."
What with Brookie taking bets on The Old Man and Sam, and now this gruesome parcel with the picture of a stork and baby, even Davis's substandard wit contrived to work things out. Within the hour, he was on the blower, blabbing his suspicions to Hollyoak at Eastbourne.
As it happened, the constabulary was quiet that afternoon, and Brooke had nipped outside to grab some air. Wandering back indoors, he caught the tail-end of Davis gossiping down the station phone.
"… and so it's lookin' like the Old Man's knocked 'er up, the dirty bugger…"
Brooke gasped and shot across the station-floor to snatch the phone with one hand and restrain his constable with the other. In half a second, the receiver was back in its cradle, and Davis was gripped by Brooke's two hands grabbing fistfuls of his uniform jacket.
"What the bloody hell d'you think you're doin', Davis?" snarled Brooke, all wide-eyed panic, spilling over into fury.
Davis, never quick to spot the signs of serious trouble—even when it was snarling in his face—took Brookie's question as a prompt to strike a bargain. "Come off it, Sarge," he told him cheerfully. "They're never gonna keep this quiet. And you can talk—the one who's making book…"
"Yeah, but that's different, you pillock. That was just a bit of fun to 'elp 'em on their way, you see. This ain't. You've gone and dropped 'im in it, now!"
Davis gawped. The cogs inside his sluggish brain were back in motion. "Nah. Really? Do you reckon, Sarge? Suppose you might be right… I 'adn't thought."
"That's just it, Eddie! You don't never think, you bloody arse!"
A heavy silence fell upon the station concourse, as the two men stood locked together nose-to-nose. Brooke's hands were gripping Davis by the fabric of his jacket, eyes wide with aggravated stress and raw vexation.
"Erm, Sar-arge?" Davis' tone was nonchalant enquiry, as if a new thought had occurred to him about an unrelated subject.
"Whatt?" Brookie eyed him sideways, warily, and spoke the word through gritted teeth with clipped precision.
"The Brass—they won't, you know, suspend the Boss, or summat… will they…?"
Brooke stared, incredulous, at Davis, then shoved him backwards sharply, letting go his grip. His next words were a sob of pure exasperation.
"Oh F*CK off, Davis. What's the bloody use?"
In no time, idle tongues at Eastbourne wagged right up the grapevine.
The following Monday Foyle found himself en route for London in the Wolseley, Summoned to the Presence. He was by no means unprepared for this interview, because a white-faced Brooke had all but burst into his office the previous Thursday evening and confessed about the Davis "leak".
Foyle had received the news from Brooke with customary stoicism. Afterwards, as he sat ruminating on apportionment of blame, he came to the conclusion that there could be but one name on the figurative charge-sheet for this crime: his own.
In any case, he wasn't going to sink to disciplining Davis—that was up to Brooke.
And Brookie, sure enough, was on the case. Fat lot of good it was about to do—for here came Davis, in his shirtsleeves, lugging a mop and heavy bucket past the front desk, on his way to lavatory detail. And still the idiot was looking cheerful, blithely unaffected by the upset he had caused.
"Who ya ringing, Sarge?" chirped Davis, as he clanked past, heading down the corridor.
"Your mother," answered Brookie drily. "I'm askin' 'er to bring your toothbrush in, so you can clean the awkward bits around the pan."
"You'll 'ave a job, Sarge."
"Will I, now? How's that, then?"
"We ain't got a phone."
Monday, 11th December 1944, around Noon
Just after half-past twelve on Monday, Foyle and Sam pulled up outside an imposing facade in Westminster. Behind it was the office of Assistant Commissioner Henry Parkins.
Foyle looked at Sam, deciding how to remove her from the range of any possible unpleasantness. He had glossed over the reason for his summons up to London, and had no intention of unburdening himself now. On balance, he thought it best that she should go and find a place to get some lunch. "I doubt I'll need you for at least an hour or so, Sweetheart," he said. "And it should be fairly simple to find a place to eat round here. Fact is, you're in the thick of things."
"That's right! I shall enjoy exploring," Sam said brightly, reaching discreetly down across the cabin to squeeze his hand. "Shall I plan to be back by…two? Is that a reasonable time?"
Foyle nodded. "Oh, I'm sure that will be plenty." One way or another, he thought darkly. In any case, if Parkins isn't done by two, I shall be.
At one o'clock and back from early lunch, AC Parkins sat behind his leather-topped bureau, girding himself to intimidate the officer before him.
The prepared script running through his head addressed the general topic of sexual incontinence within the Force: it would not be tolerated at any level, much less among the senior ranks; it exposed the Service to ridicule; if he ignored this, there'd be all sorts of goings-on. Etcetera, etcetera—then moving on to the more particular topic of Foyle.
Parkins' wrinkled face appeared for all the world as if he had been sucking lemons. My God! The man was old enough to be her father; had he lost his mind? With steepled fingers tapping at their tips in irritation, he surveyed the annoyingly composed figure seated opposite him.
Parkins forgot his script. "How do you account for this mare's nest, Foyle?" he snapped. "Young women under your authority fall pregnant, and, from what I hear, they do so in your bed? What the HELL have you got to say for yourself?"
Foyle leaned back in his seat and regarded Parkins from under hooded lids. He raised one leg to rest an ankle over the opposing knee. Then he removed his hat and perched it on the top of the arrangement. His expression and his tone were calm and even as he spoke.
"Your summons of me here is based on rumour and conjecture. But since you ask, I have to say precisely this: my fiancée Miss Stewart and I are getting—'the HELL'—married this weekend? I, uh, regard the matter as a private one, outside your jurisdiction?" Foyle tilted his chin almost imperceptibly, as if inviting disagreement.
Parkins fiddled with his pen, wondering if that was all.
It wasn't. Foyle obliged him by continuing. "In view of which, if you persist in harassing me in this wholly inappropriate and unreasonable manner, you shall have my resignation forthwith, allowing you to concentrate your energies on appointing someone else to run the South Coast operation. Because I have absolutely no intention of remaining in a post where I'm obliged to hear my future wife disparaged."
Talk of marriage had rather knocked the wind from Parkins' sails. His mouth turned down as he considered his now much-reduced options for pulling rank and showing disapproval. Clearing his throat, he came up with a feeble, "This is highly irregular, Foyle."
Foyle looked askance to hold his scorn in check. He failed. "To my mind, this intrusion is irregular. And your gossip-fuelled perception of my situation is irregular. It seems sensible to me that you stop wasting my time, and allow me to get on with regularising whatever thing you find irregular about my getting married." Then he added: "Sir."
Parkins bristled, but the DCS's posture grew, if anything, more relaxed. Foyle allowed his mind to wander through his previous dealings with men of Parkins' 'elevated' rank. Not one of them commanded his esteem, but they somehow felt entitled to demand it.
More bluster issued from the Brass's mouth: "You realise the girl will not be able to remain in post." A puny threat, conceded Parkins to himself, but here was one small way to pull a modicum of rank.
Foyle sighed. 'The girl.' This autocrat just wouldn't learn respect. "Miss Stewart will most definitely not remain in post. She will be making different plans to serve the war effort, in conjunction with her new role as my wife." Foyle's tone was patient, matter-of-fact, as if he were explaining to a child.
"Foyle, are you seriously expecting…?" Parkins' bile rose in a surge of indignation. Such insolent refusal to defer to authority!
"Well, yes, in fact I am expecting, seriously." Foyle tilted his head again, lifting both hands to enumerate the salient points on his fingers. "I am expecting to marry my fiancée, live with my wife, and, in due course, bring up my children. IF that's all the same to you?" He raised his eyebrows for the postscript: "And even if it isn't."
Foyle plucked his hat from his knee and set it carefully back on his head. Rising to stand before the AC's desk, he waited for… whatever came. It was all the same to him.
Parkins regarded Foyle with pursed lips. No smoke without fire. A pronounced whiff of sulphur hung about the whole affair, but he clearly had no stick with which to beat this man. In any case, the DCS was, indeed, stubborn enough to reject his censure and summarily resign. And that would make matters infinitely worse for police operations, what with Sir Philip's most particular attention being focussed on the worrying levels of criminal activity. No. Parkins had no option but to concede defeat.
"I think it serves no useful purpose to prolong this interview," he hissed.
"Glad we agree. So if you'll excuse me, there's the small matter of the SouthCoast to run." And my wedding to prepare for. Foyle shot the AC a weary glance as he turned to leave the office. "And, um, one last thing: I shall be needing another driver from next Monday. My wife will be otherwise occupied."
Parkins' voice was peevish in defeat. "Drivers are in short supply, Foyle. And this is too short notice. Use your sergeant, can't you?"
"In case you've forgotten, DS Milner has an artificial leg, courtesy of Trondheim. And my desk sergeant? Can't spare him, sorry. The uniformed operation, as Sir Philip himself has often remarked, is very under-staffed." Or over-staffed, if you counted Davis. Foyle paused to measure his next blow. "However… in the circumstances, I might be able to prevail upon my wife to stay in post until such time as you can find an adequate replacement…"
Parkins felt his only minor triumph slip away. "Oh, just—do as you see fit!" He pushed irritably at his desk-blotter in a final flounce of pique.
Foyle emerged from the building to find Sam already back from lunch and standing formally beside the Wolseley passenger door in her greatcoat. He shot her a concerned look. "Not been there long in the cold, I hope?" his hand slid out to touch her sleeve.
"No, not long. How did it go?" she asked, as she held the door for him to climb into the car.
"Fine," he said, then waited for Sam to walk around the car and get in herself. "I told the AC we were getting married, and he wants to know if you would kindly stay on for a while after the wedding?"
Sam was thrilled. "Oh, how splendid, Christopher! Still, I don't suppose they'll let me stay on as your driver once they realise…"
"Yes, well, we'll think that out again towards the end of January. Did you enjoy your lunch-break?" He smiled, too well aware of how she loved her food.
"Rath-er! They've got a lovely Lyons Corner House in the next street. I actually managed to get my mittens on a Kunzle Showboat."
"And was it nice?" Foyle wasn't very "up" in these things, but imagined Sam was referring to a type of cake.
"Well it looks delicious. But I didn't eat it. Here! I brought it back for you." She reached into a paper bag, and drew forth what, to Foyle, appeared a sickly-looking horror of a confection.
Sam perched it on her upturned palm like a precious ornament. It was a three-by-two-inch chocolate cup-case, filled with something pink approximating buttercream (if its constituents had ever issued from a cow, they would be lucky). Piped across the top was an intricate lattice-work of chocolate icing, garnished with a single glacé cherry.
"Isn't it delicious-looking?" she crooned admiringly, swallowing a build-up of saliva.
"Um—looks… delightful. Don't let me deprive you," grimaced Foyle. Sam didn't see his face, as she still was looking covetously at the cake.
"I bet there's sponge in there, as well," she speculated.
"One has to hope," said Foyle, his teeth already aching at the prospect. "Um. Look," he lied, "I had a snack with Parkins. You should probably eat it. I'm, er, full." 'Full' right up past the nostrils with the Colonel Blimp brigade. "But it's sweet of you to bring it for me." Yes, it really was. He beamed at her, with fondness richer than the filling in the cake.
"Really, Christopher? Are you sure?" Sam's eyes lit up, anticipating heaven in a chocolate cup.
"Just do me a favour, though."
"Anything."
"Eat it when we're out of sight of Parkins' office window. Don't want you arrested for indulgence verging on indecency."
Sam relaxed into the journey as she drove them back to Hastings. Christopher's periodically grim demeanour from the last few days had vanished, and she found him open, warm, and (within his normal Christopher-constraints) quite chatty. After half an hour or so of driving, Sam decided she would like to stop and eat her cake.
"I can feel it burning a hole in the paper bag," she explained. "And I really could do with something sweet… in my condition." She shot him a sideways glance under her lashes. All was fair in love and cravings-born-of-wartime-shortage.
Foyle's lips pursed and quivered with amusement. Was he being "handled"? Fine. He'd let it ride.
"So eat your cake," he told her. "Pull into a lay-by."
Once Sam had parked, it was a lightning four-step operation: handbrake on; ignition off; gauntlets off; straight for the Kunzle cake. But Sam's approach was not to be a two-bite, business-like affair. The cake was small, but she was going to make it last.
First came the tongue and delved into the "buttercream" (Foyle screwed his eyes up tight against the image).
Then her lips nipped at the glacé cherry (Oh, God… do hurry up and eat the thing, Samantha).
"Mmm. Christopher. This is delicious! You don't know what you're missing." Sam was building a whole narrative around the ruddy thing.
Oh yes, I do. But definitely not a fluffy cake. "Well, very nice, I'm sure. Might want to hurry up with that. We shouldn't be too long, or it will be—um—getting dark."
The sponge was next. She dug it from the chocolate cup with a deft tongue-curl, then began to clean the creamy remnants from the chocolate shell.
At this point, Foyle had reached his limit, and he turned to look away. His view from the side-window was an unengaging hedge. She was absolutely not playing fair with this cake business.
"Wait till I get you home," he growled.
"I did offer you the cake," Sam protested.
"Don't want the bloody cake," he sulked.
It was already dark when they drew to a halt outside Steep Lane.
"The car stays here tonight," said Foyle. "Give Mrs Evans something riveting to enter in her diary."
He ushered Sam inside and closed the door upon the problems of the day.
Sam shrugged her coat off, handing it to Christopher, then leaned against the inside of the door. "You've worried me, you know, these last few days," she said. "And quite apart from everything at Lyminster."
"Yes, I'm sorry. Granted, there have been things on my mind, but now it's settled. I'll admit that I've been very tense…"
"That's all right, Darling. I can understand. But I wish you'd share instead of brooding." She reached and stroked his arm. "And I'm sorry that I teased you just a little with the cake. I thought that it would cheer you up."
He placed his hands against the door above her shoulders. "Let's cheer ourselves up now," he said, and met her lips in gentle demonstration.
She shifted to accommodate the kiss, and raised a hand to run her fingers through his hair. "Mmm. Darling. What a lovely evening this is going to be."
"Just one of many yet to come," said Foyle, and led her by the hand upstairs.
Things started well, but as they trailed into the bedroom, Sam caught sight of herself in the cheval mirror, and was suddenly assailed by thoughts of her inevitable expansion in the months ahead.
"Christopher," she fretted, stroking her skirt over her belly, "how will you like me when I'm fat?"
"I'll like you very well. You'll make a lovely armful. As indeed you make a lovely armful now. There'll just be more of you to wrap myself around."
Foyle reached out in front of him and curled his arms to demonstrate the largest hoop-shape possible.
"Oh, you!" She saw the mischief in his eyes and shoved him lightly. "But you know," she mused, "I'm going to look… a very funny shape."
"Not to me. Well, yes, there'll be a little extra handful here and there, I'll grant you, just as things should be. And as for round your middle—well, I think we'll manage beautifully." Again he formed the hoop-shape. "That's why we men are made with longer arms."
Sam grinned at his good humour, then lowered her eyelashes and smiled a little sadly, "But I'll never look the same again."
"You'll look more beautiful to me." Foyle wrapped his arms around her slender middle from behind, looking over her shoulder into the mirror. "You'll be a large. ripe. downy. peach." He nibbled at her ear with each successive word.
"Then afterwards," he offered reassuringly, "You'll shrink down to an apricot—still juicy, but with less of you."
Foyle closed his eyes to fix the image in his own imagination, and mmm! his mind was captivated by the promised fruitiness of Sam.
"Eventually, you'll lose the weight and dwindle… to a stick of rhubarb."
This was a step too far for Sam. "CHRISTOPHER!" She turned her head and glared at him, appalled.
Foyle cleared his throat and set about applying damage-limitation to the gaffe: "Whatever shape you are, you'll be my lovely Sam," he whispered, lips pressed to her ear.
She huffed. "And when your lovely Sam-the-Former-Rhubarb's clothes simply won't fit her anymore?" Sam's sense of humour all at once began to fail her. Sadly, Foyle's eyes were closed and he failed to note the sudden change in her expression.
"Lend you some of mine," he teased. "I've got some very tasteful shirts and ties. And natty braces for the trousers when your belt won't fasten round your middle."
Foyle's mind strayed further into mischief. "Or you could stay at home and languish in your dressing gown—or mine." He nuzzled at her neck. "Barefoot and housebound. That's the way I like my pregnant women."
Sam snorted, elbowing him sharply. "Oh, you do NOT, you rotten fibber. And if you do, you're going to have a nasty shock with me."
"Ouch," said Foyle, dismissively, as if he'd said 'that's nice, Dear', and he returned to nibbling her earlobe.
Now seriously annoyed by his avoidance of her genuine concern, Sam removed her ear from reach, and prised Foyle's arms from around her waist. "Now, look here. I am not an object for—for your"—she grasped for the word, remembering an article in Woman's Illustrated—"lib-ee-do. I am miserable about this. And all you can do is make fruit jokes and—and nibble—and paw."
Foyle sighed good-naturedly. "Sorry, my darling." His hands moved up to stroke Sam's upper arms. She wriggled irritably, barely tolerating his touch.
It was time to shelve his lust and bring his higher functions into play. Foyle's higher self was telling him to deal with Sam's agitation because it was the right thing to do; his lower self was telling him he wasn't going to get anywhere otherwise. Both Foyles joined forces to address the problem.
"All right then, Sweetheart. Here's a real idea: we'll ask for help from Milner. Edie might have things that you can borrow, since you're both, um, heading in the same direction—and Edie's slightly in the lead, so the arrangement could work out rather well. OR we could take a weekend trip to London; see what's in the shops." He sneaked his arms around her middle once again, and waited. "How's that, for the time being?"
Sam warmed a little. "Those are rather good ideas. I suppose you're not so rotten after all…"
She hugged the arms he'd wrapped around her waist, tracing the sinews in his forearms with deliberate, insistent strokes.
"Pleased you think so," Foyle murmured, and a heavy urge claimed him once again. Turning her head a little, he kissed her, begging entry with his tongue.
Sam melted into him over her shoulder, responding eagerly at first, but remnants of fruit salad were still playing on her mind. She pulled her lips away. "Christopher…"
"Mm?" he leaned back, frowning patiently at her along his nose. Something else is wrong?
"Am I a 'stick of rhubarb' now? Before, um, even getting fat?"
"N-nup... You're certainly slender in a rhubarb sort of way. But bits of you lean more towards the Bramley apple. Definitely."
"They do?" She smiled, enjoying the unusual compliment.
"Mm-hmm." His arms around her tightened their embrace and sent his intellect careering into exile.
"Well, that's all right, then." This was Sam, content at last.
"Isn't it just?" he mumbled absently. And any rubbish tumbles from your lips in this enlivened state, Foyle, he thought.
"So what shall we do now?" asked Sam. She grinned, because she felt the answer pressing on her Bramleys from behind.
"Right now?" he said, "I'm going to lean you back into a nice deep-sided oven-dish and make a juicy orchard crumble out of you."
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
Re Foyle's use of the word "Blimp": to be fair, Parkins (the excellent Michael Jayston) uses the term in an uncharacteristic spate of self-awareness, to describe himself during "Plan of Attack", S06E01. But I've always felt that scene was just a plot device to make Foyle's return to office more credible. In my book, Parkins was a first-rate prat, and still remains one…
One word to say about Kunzle cakes—specifically Kunzle Showboats: YUM—in spite of Foyle's aversion (men have no appreciation of these things). I ate these sickly treats with relish as a child in the '60s, but they pre-dated my childhood by a good many years.
Christian Kunzle came to Britain from Switzerland at the end of the 19th century, and set up a confectionery business in Birmingham. He opened restaurants in Leicester and London, as well as his adopted home town, Birmingham. His confectionery was renowned for its quality and refusal to compromise on ingredients. Therefore, I should really apologise to his shade for implying that he sank to using ersatz cream during the war (but there was a lot of it about in wartime—remnants of it survived well into the 1960s when I was retching over my school dinners. Blech!).
I can't say for certain whether Kunzle cakes would have been on sale at Lyons Corner Houses, as Lyons was a direct competitor of Kunzle, but Christian's factory did supply restaurants other than his own.
Christian died in 1954 and his family company was swallowed, first by Fullers, and then, eventually, by Lyons, so though I may be jumping the gun a bit by letting Sam buy one of his cakes at Lyons Corner House, it all comes out the same in the end!
More soon.
GiuC