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 wedding is only a few days away. Geraldine has plans for Sam, and Christopher assumes responsibility for Iain—or vice-versa.

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:

Glenlivet is a very fine single malt scotch whisky. Its history began in an illegal Speyside distillery, and though its production has long since been a licensed and legal operation, it still tickles the palate in a wicked way.

The Dinkie was a 1940s brand of steel hair-curler, comprising a steel shaft-and-clip arrangement—precursor to the roller.

Jane was the voluptuous heroine of Norman Pett's 1940s cartoon-strip in The Daily Mirror. She was notoriously bad at keeping her clothes on, particularly when the troops' morale needed a boost. Jane was modelled on a lady called Chrystabel Leighton-Porter, from Eastleigh in Hampshire.

Woodbines were a brand of strong, unfiltered cigarette, popular with soldiers at the time. Ovaltine and Horlicks were (and still are) Great British bedtime drinks, traditionally made with milk.

dancesabove - thanks to you, as ever, for your invaluable input.

Previously, in "L'Aimant":

"Oi! Davis?"

"Sarge?" Davis' voice drifted indoors from the front steps of the station.

"Put that shovel down, Constable. I've got a present for ya." Brookie slammed an Ovaltine tin down on the front desk.

Davis wandered over from the station doors, sizing up his 'present'. "Ovaltine, Sarge? Kind of ya, but it ain't bedtime yet. And anyway, me muvver always makes me 'Orlicks. 'Orlicks is me favourite."

Brooke resisted the temptation to pick up the tin and bang it sharply against Davis' skull. "Open the lid, you berk."

Davis prised the lid off and peered inside. The tin was crammed tight with Woodbines. "Bloody 'ell, Sarge! Did I win the jackpot?"

"In a way, you did, yeah. 'Cos you bet two fags on 'Overnight at 'is place'—40 to 1, remember?"

Davis nodded mutely, wondering if there was going to be More Trouble. But Brooke continued evenly, "Well, on Saturday, they're gettin' married, see? So, if they 'aven't yet, by Monday morning they will 'ave done for certain. Now go an' smoke yerself to death, you jammy beggar. And stay off the blower to Eastbourne—they've got gobs on 'em the size of Goering's backside over there."

Chapter 13

Wednesday, 13th December 1944

Geraldine Stewart spoke adamantly down the line to Sam. "I'll be with you on Friday evening, Darling. We'll spend a little bit of time on your hair, and Daddy can stay in town—can't have him under our feet. Oh, and I'll bring some lovely things to wear…"

"Mummy, no need, honestly. I was only going to wear my green dress. It's not as if we're in church."

"Nonsense, Samantha. No excuses. Wherever you are, we shall have you looking splendid. I'll bring my fox fur."

"Mother. NO."

Sam was beginning to feel under siege. Despite the fashion of the day, she was darned if she'd be getting married with a flattened piece of taxidermy draped around her neck—all glass-eyes, teeth, and grinning at the witnesses.

"Shoes, then," persisted Geraldine. "I'll bring the satin ones. We shall simply have to hope it doesn't rain—or snow—or they'll be ruined. How I do despair of the English climate!"

"Mummy, it's December, and it has been known to snow, even on The French Riviera—not that Adolf is about to let us through to check the weather."

"So that's it," Sam complained to Christopher that evening as they relaxed on the settee before dinner. "I'm being descended on by Mummy at my digs on Friday night, and Daddy's being banished into town to some hotel or other." She huffed. "He'll grumble, and by Saturday morning, it's unlikely that I'll still be sane."

"Iain can stay here with me on Friday night," Foyle told her simply.

"Really, Darling—are you serious?"

"Wouldn't offer if I weren't," he smiled indulgently down on Sam, savouring the feel of her. She was leaning against his side, supported by his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, I do love you so," she said, and snuggled closer. A little quiet time with her fiancé was really all she craved to calm her nerves.

"Why?" he asked. His mouth twitched under crinkled eyes as he settled back to enjoy her reaction to his challenge.

"Why do I love you?" Sam was taken aback. "You know 'why'."

"Don't. Not really. Don't believe you've ever actually said."

"I haven't? Well… all right." She took a breath. "I love you because…oh, I don't know—a thousand reasons."

"Start with one."

"Um. Honestly! You're rotten." Sam squirmed at how he put her on the spot.

"You love me because I'm rotten?—Ouch!" Sam had dug him in the flank.

"You jolly well deserved that. Right, then. Let me think." She hummed a little, screwing up her eyes to formulate some reasons. "I know! I've got one. Um. You look me in the eye."

"I look you…?"

"…in the eye. Yes. Always. When we're opposite each other. Obviously not when I'm driving. When I'm driving, you look me in the ear. Where my eyes would be if I were looking back at you. You see?"

"Mmmmmaybe."

"You're looking at me now. I know you are."

"I am." He was.

"Nobody has ever looked at me as much and as intently as you do. You look at me, and you say: 'Sam?' just like that—all sort of searching. 'Sam?'. And then your eyebrows rise up in the middle and twitch like a puppy's…"

"Like a…?" Foyle's eyes went wide.

"Mm-hmm. You heard."

His face contorted into every possible expression as he struggled to restrain the beam that threatened to escape across his features.

"Sam?" he said.

"You see? You're doing it again. Do you want to hear the other nine-hundred and ninety-nine reasons?"

"Nup. That's fine," he said. "I've heard enough for now."

"Hard cheese. Another one: you swagger when you walk. I like that."

"Do you, now?"

"Mm-hmm. You keep your head right down, and hands in pockets—because you're thinking—and you sway, and place one foot before the other, like a tightrope-walker, or someone crossing a stream on stepping-stones. And your coat swings round you. I could watch you walk all day."

"You could?"

"I really could."

"Sam?"

"That's my name. Nine-hundred and ninety-eight reasons to g—"

He bent and stopped her lips, folding her up and into him across his chest. After a long time, he broke the kiss to give them both a chance to breathe. "Plenty of years to recite the other reasons," he said. "I just…mm…wanted a small taster." He licked his lips and looked into her eyes. "If you like, we could—um—move on to other things now…?"

"Like… dinner, you mean?"

His head tilted, as if weighing up the possibilities. "Well, dinner for a start… or even, later…"

Friday evening, 15th December 1944, eve of The Wedding

"Mother, I said NO fox fur."

"I know, Darling," Geraldine cajoled, "but this you'll like…"

Samantha's mother released the catches on her suitcase and slipped a hand inside under several layers of tissue-paper to draw forth… an arctic fox-fur shoulder-cape. No grinning heads or dangling tails; just one soft expanse of grey-white fur, with collar, simple hook to hold the front together, and two slits to feed one's arms through at the sides.

Sam was speechless—not, as she'd expected, with distaste. "Mummy, where on earth did you get such a lovely thing?"

"Well, Dear," Geraldine's voice took on a confidential tone, "last year, Mrs Arbuthnot's effects went up for auction at the manor. Your father, when he heard that I was going, expected me to bring back a vintage garden-ornament. Naturally, when I saw this, it was love at first sight. I've never worn it—" Geraldine paused and placed a finger to her lips, "—never even shown it to your father. It's been boxed-up in the loft, awaiting its big moment… and the garden-gnome I bought, to throw your father off the scent, is standing by the fish-pond, as testament to my innocence."

Sam grinned, but then looked longingly at the opulent fur cape. "I do feel a little dowdy in my overcoat and frock..."

"Darling, olive green's a splendid colour on you in a dress, but perhaps forget the coat and wear the fur instead. Oh—and I brought you this… and these… and these." Geraldine dived back into her suitcase and produced the other items for Sam's trousseau.

Samantha had to smile. Her mama was definitely wasted in a vicarage. With effortless aplomb, her mother had assembled a complete wedding outfit: cream satin court shoes, a three-bloom spray of artificial silk gardenias with leaves, and elbow-length cream satin gloves.

She stroked the flowers, remembering how she'd seem them pinned to a ball-gown of her mother's when she was a child. Then she reached across and ran her hand across the cape, almost expecting it to undulate beneath her touch. "Well, maybe if I tried this on for just a moment…"

Geraldine gave a chuckle. "Darling, you're your mother's daughter. Don't ever imagine I don't understand you through and through."

The cape had padded shoulders, and a grey crêpe satin lining. It was immensely warm, although it only reached to just below Samantha's elbows.

Geraldine surveyed her daughter, laid a hand across her mouth and nodded in approval. "It gives you such a lovely line, Dear. And of course, the gloves come right up to your elbows, so you won't be cold."

Sam fed her hands experimentally through the arm-slits in the cape, and caressed the fur. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

"You're beautiful, my darling. Christopher won't be able to take his eyes off you tomorrow." She kissed her daughter's cheek, and whispered, "Sadly, beauty comes at such a painful price—and in my bag you'll find three-dozen horrid Dinkies for your poor old hair…"

"Iain. Welcome. Please come in." Foyle stepped aside and held his arm out straight behind him, inviting his guest into the hallway of 31 Steep Lane. Here, on home territory for his third-ever meeting with Sam's father, Foyle was relaxed, and buoyant in his bonhomie.

"Let me take your coat and hat. Good journey in from Lyminster?"

"Thank you, very pleasant, considering the time of year. I've just left Geraldine at Samantha's. Our women apparently have Things to Do." Iain raised his eyebrows knowingly, before making a show of appreciating his surroundings. "This is all very nice. How long have you been living here?"

"Mmmost of my son's life. 20 years." Foyle felt just a little guilt as he consciously expunged Rosalind from the record. "Come in. Have a seat. Would you care for tea? A whisky? Not too early for one by now, I think?" He checked himself and raised a finger to his brow. "Um—tactless of me. I believe Samantha mentioned that you are teetotal?"

"No. A whisky would be very welcome, Christopher. If the truth be known—and celebration of the Eucharist apart—I never cared for wine, but my father taught me to appreciate a decent malt the day I reached sixteen. In his scheme of things, no self-respecting Scotsman ever passed up the offer of a dram. Samantha was correct, though—in adult life, I have aspired to abstinence. Throughout her childhood, I never kept alcohol in the house. Never, that is, until about a year into this wretched war."

"Whatever changed your mind?" Foyle's interest was genuinely piqued.

"News reached my ears that Hitler is teetotal. I resolved to controvert him."

Foyle's face broke into a broad grin. "Couldn't approve more. Make yourself at home, Iain. I'll put your bag in Andrew's room."

Iain Stewart sank into an armchair in the living room. "Your son, I gather, won't be coming to the wedding, Christopher?"

"Nnno. Communication problems—nothing ominous, but, fact is, I've no solid information as to where he actually is at this time. Andrew's in the RAF—a Squadron Leader. Active service. My suspicion would be overseas, in Malta."

"I see. I'm sorry. You must be worried—by his absence, and… also about how he might react to this marriage."

Foyle tilted his head. "Mmm. Always worried for his safety, Iain, but in the other matter… He's my son. I love him. Always will. But… he'll either like the marriage, or he won't, in which case, we shall still be here when he eventually comes around." Foyle smiled a little ruefully, and raised the bag already in his hand. "I'll take this upstairs, then we can invade my liquor-stash."

Iain shifted in his chair to scan the room. Neat, comfortable. Faded chintz that spoke of one-time feminine influence. Shelves full of books. A gramophone. Some photographs… one of Christopher's late wife, he presumed, one of Andrew in his pilot-officer uniform, and one of Christopher himself, in shirtsleeves, smiling, hands on hips, and looking fondly down upon a child, squatting on a pebbled beach, intent on some small seashore curiosity or other.

This, then, was the home-ground of his future grandchild's father—a man some dozen years his junior, and approaching parenthood for the second time. Iain made a conscious effort to regress ten years or so, and think himself into the shoes of his soon-to-be-son-in-law. He felt a pang of sympathy. How would he have felt or acted, had Geraldine presented him with a late infant in his fifties? He swallowed, and resolved to have a tactful word with his wife about arrangements, though he consoled himself that such an occurrence was surely now out of the question.

Iain was still musing idly over this hypothetical scenario, when his host returned.

"Glenlivet, Iain?" Foyle made for a recess in the bookcase, gathering two glasses and a bottle, almost full.

"I don't believe I've had a sip of that in eighteen months," remarked his guest, with undisguised enthusiasm.

"I'm fortunate—this bottle was a gift from a colleague." Foyle grinned, remembering the newspaper-wrapped package discovered on his desk on Wednesday morning. On close inspection, the wrapping had comprised three carefully-selected sheets from The Daily Mirror, all showing the cartoon-strip character, Jane, in her scanties. The label on the present read "For the man who has everything—Hugh".

"So, Iain—shall we show our joint contempt for Hitler and put a largeish hole in this?" Foyle halted mid-flow, clapping a hand to his forehead, "Oh—I do beg your pardon! Don't suppose you've eaten…?"

"Actually, not since lunch, no." Iain was apologetic. His appetite was clearly threatening to hold up planned proceedings with the scotch.

"Right. Well. Can't let you go hungry. Why don't you—um—pour us both a decent glass? I'll be just a moment. Sam made a shepherd's pie last night. We simply need to warm it in the oven." Foyle left the room to see to dinner, depositing the bottle and the whisky tumblers on a chenille-draped table.

Iain Stewart flexed his fingers and approached the tall, green whisky bottle with a reverence that owed nothing to his religious calling. He poured an inch of golden liquid into each of the two whisky tumblers, and placed one on the table next to where he guessed that Christopher would sit, carrying his own glass across to the armchair.

A moment later, Foyle returned. "All done in half an hour, I think," he grinned. "I found some mustard. Haven't any mint for mint sauce, I'm afraid."

Ian thanked him, rose, and raised his glass. "To long life and happiness, Christopher!" His lips anticipated a sip of liquid Heaven.

"Your very good health, Iain." Foyle returned the toast.

At least four whiskies and one lost sheep later….

"Iain?" confided Foyle, squinting at the older man through one unfocussed eye, "I think I have a lot to thank you for."

"That may well be true," slurred Iain, whose brain, though still acute, was failing to operate his tongue quite smoothly. "But not in the straightforward sense." He paused to put some order in his thoughts. "I always… taught her to think for herself. So why am I surprised when she surprises me?"

Foyle swirled his whisky in its glass and grinned, remembering his first encounter with Samantha. "She certainly surprised me the very first day we met."

"She did?" Iain sat up straight-ish in his armchair, interest aroused.

Foyle nodded. "I was in hot pursuit of a suspect, and… she floored him with a dustbin-lid. Nonchalant as you like—didn't blink an eye." Foyle tipped his head and gaped as he recalled the scene. "Took my bloody breath away." He squinted down into his glass and failed, this time, to focus on the pattern at the bottom of the tumbler.

Iain's solemn face cracked. Back went his head emitting a loud guffaw that startled Foyle out of his drunken, pensive moment. "You know, she's never, ever, told me that?"

"Quite likely, she imagined that you'd haul her back to Lyminster if she had." Foyle smiled, remembering his conversations with Sam on that subject.

Iain nodded, raising an unsteady finger to his brow. "When she was out of reach, I always worried for her, Christopher. If anything, the fretting she endured from me… pushed her away from home, and, latterly, I imagine, towards you. She was—and is—my child, you see. For you, there's no dilemma to address—she's always been a woman to you. But a father never dreams his child will make a woman's choices."

Foyle sobered. "No dilemma? Well, perhaps not now, but I fought my feelings for a long time. The great difference in our ages held me back, but… Samantha has confounded my expectations so often now… the battle's over." He sighed. "And I'm under no illusion—I'm the lucky winner here, and grateful that she made those choices, Iain. Nothing and no-one has been more precious to me in a long time—actually, ever." Foyle frowned, absorbing the full meaning of his own words. The photograph of Rosalind smiled sadly at him from across the room.

Iain hauled himself to his feet, and swayed as the sudden gain in height disturbed his alcohol-befuddled sense of balance. "Well then, embattled Christopher, since my daughter isn't here to do the honours this time, I had better get you up to bed." He reached a half-unsteady hand to pull Foyle up out of his chair.

Foyle's mouth took on an impish curve as he reached up to grasp the proffered hand. "Iain, you asked me a blunt question last Saturday, so it's only fair I get to ask you the same one now: How old are you?"

"I'm sixty-two."

"How old is Geraldine?"

"She's forty-eight."

Foyle tutted archly through his smile: "That's quite a gap between your ages, Iain. I trust that Geraldine wasn't influenced in her choice of you by awe of your position as a cleric."

Though Iain towered over Christopher, he took the jibe in good part. "Well, you've met my wife," he said. "How much in awe d'you think she is of me or of my calling?"

"I think… we may have certain things in common, you and I," said Foyle. "And there'll be times when… maybe we should stick together."

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

More Author's Notes:

Snow on The French Riviera in December is rare, but not unknown. There are recent pictures of a snowy beach in Nice, taken on Saturday 19th December 2009.

With regard to his wife's fertility, Ian would be well-advised to shake himself out of complacency. My maternal grandmother gave birth to her last child at the age of 47. The baby was her fourteenth—and grew up to be my mother. In some respects, the pregnancy was a relief, since, at her age, she had feared that she was growing a malignant tumour.

Tomorrow's a big day for Foyle and Sam. I'm off to visit YouTube for a dose of Stanley Holloway's star turn from "My Fair Lady": # Pull aaht the stoppah! Let's 'ave a whoppah! And getmetothechurch on tiiiime! #

More soon.

GiuC