L'Aimant – Chapter 18

Summary:

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

Chapter 18: First day back at work for Sam and Foyle after the wedding.

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:

Readers of this serial may also enjoy a companion story I have written, starring Merivale and Aubrey. It is called "Wine and Roses" and is set in June 1945, six months after this episode of L'Aimant— but it won't interfere with your reading experience of this serial. I shall be posting it shortly, so please sign up for a writer alert using your Follow/Favorite button, or else keep your eyes peeled for it in the Foyle's war listings.

…

Richard Beardsley belongs to Kailin. He appears in two episodes of her excellent Foyle's War story cycle which begins with "Last Man Standing" (look for him in "A Glimmer of Hope" and "At the End"). My story runs in an alternative universe, but Beardsley's still up to his nasty tricks.

…

dancesabove and I had a little discussion about the availability of Quaker Oats in Britain during WWII. As it turns out, there were manufacturing plants at Ware, Hertfordshire, and at Rotherhithe, both established after WWI, so we reckoned we were on safe ground.

Thanks as ever to dances for her clever beta-work.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Sam heard and felt the pain behind the words. She took a deep breath and shook her head in angry disbelief. "I can't bear that he's trying to punish you for this. I shall write him such a letter, it will melt his eyeballs…"

"No, you won't, Samantha," Foyle said softly. "I shall deal with it. Please give me the letter now." From his stooped position, he held out his hand, and fixed Samantha with his piercing blue eyes. They said: Don't cross me in this.

Sam blinked slowly and let out her breath, hearing a faint whistling sound in her ears as the temper left her. Mutely, she handed over the folded sheets of paper, glancing with furrowed brow to one side, upset.

Foyle tilted his head, acknowledging the concession. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he added, "And thank you for being my protector."

Still balanced on his toes, Foyle swivelled round and tossed the letter on the fire.

"Breakfast now, I think."

"Not really hungry now." Her tone was hurt.

"You'll eat. I'll eat. Life goes on." He moved to sit beside her on the settee. "Sam, cheer up. We know what we are. This won't be the first time I've had to teach Andrew a life-lesson…" he sighed. "And it probably won't be the last."

Sam fidgeted. "He doesn't even know that I'm expecting. What on earth's he going to make of that?"

Foyle was suddenly indignant. "It's absolutely none of his bloody business. I don't pry into his intimate affairs. If he's any good at arithmetic, he can have a second pop at me when the baby's born. I'll even fetch a soap box for him to stand on while he's doing it."

Sam sniggered in spite of herself.

"Sam, he's my son. I wiped his bottom when he was small, for God's sake. I'm not about to let him tell me how to lead my life. Rest easy, now. Let me worry about Andrew."

Sam looked hopeful. "You wiped his bottom? Didn't Rosalind do that?"

Foyle squirmed a little. "Well, um. I wiped it a few times. If we were out. At the, um, Gents'…"

Sam raised her eyes to heaven.

Chapter 18

Tuesday morning, 19th December 1944

"Must admit, hadn't considered all the practical details of work arrangements," declared Foyle as they sat over their porridge. "Can't have you cycling to the station every day just to bring the car back here again. No sense in it. Can't put you in a taxi every morning, either. Defeats the object, slightly."

"It's my job. I don't mind cycling. And it's never been a problem before." Sam prickled at the prospect that, two days into wedlock, her role might be under threat from so-called 'practical details' and so-called 'sense'.

Foyle wasn't really listening. There was a problem; he was resolving it in his head; all the rest was background chatter. It was a skill he had developed over the Samantha years, and he still used it judiciously, on occasion. "Nup. Can't have it. Things have got to change."

"Then how…?" Sam felt her colour rise. She stared emotionally into her Quaker Oats, her brows knitting angrily in readiness to do battle.

"We'll just have to keep the Wolseley parked up here most nights; and refuel it on a daily basis, so the petrol can't be siphoned by our honest neighbours overnight." Foyle looked up at Sam and smiled in satisfaction. Problem solved.

Sam saw that she'd been hasty to condemn, and heaved a sigh of relief—tinged with just a little annoyance—as she realised that Christopher hadn't been paying attention to her, anyway. Oh, well, she thought, no point in bickering today, and chipped in brightly, "Right-oh. I can remove the distributor cap at night, like I always do when the Wolseley isn't locked up in the yard!"

"Yup. That's settled then. But telephone Brooke now." Foyle resumed his breakfast, mumbling oatily, "He can bring the car up, just this once."

Sam considered that instruction for a moment. Seeing Brooke behind the wheel of 'her' car had been tolerable enough on her wedding day, but she didn't want the sergeant getting too comfortable there.

"No. I want to cycle," Sam insisted airily. "Call it my parting shot!" She pushed her chair back from the kitchen table. "See you in half an hour!" she chirped, and pecked him on the cheek. "Mmm. Delicious! You smell of shaving soap." Then she nibbled his ear and amended: "Oops, sorry! You smell of shaving soap, Sir." At that, she bounded into the hall to get her coat.

Foyle pursed his lips and tried to turn his attention back to his porridge, without much success. "Hope you realise that once we're on duty, my earlobes are off-limits," he called after her.

"See you in half an hour!" Sam's cheery voice repeated as it faded down the hallway.

"Mind how you go," he called. "It's barely light." He heard the front door close behind her.

Damned if I know what I'm going to do with her when she has to give up work, he brooded.

Cycling down Steep Lane in her greatcoat, cap and gloves was a bracing way to start the day, but Sam was used to early mornings. Her uniform cap did nothing to protect her ears, and she could feel the numbing effect the winter air was having on her extremities. Though her knees were not normally exposed when she wore her coat, the action of pedalling downhill sent a fierce draught up her skirt. It's easier cycling from my digs, she mused, not that I haven't done this route before on "earlies". And indeed she had—several times in the last month had seen her creeping out of Steep Lane in the dark of early morning. Undoubtedly, though, this time the weather was colder, and she shivered to feel the difference. The layout of the Hastings roads meant she was obliged to cycle downhill, then back up again a little way, and then across and round. It was something of a circuitous route, and arduous to boot, but her leg-muscles were wholly equal to the task after years of practice cycling around the town and environs.

Finally, Hastings Constabulary hove into view, and Sam was on the home stretch. She grinned to herself, enjoying the thought that today, for the first time ever in a work situation, Brookie would address her as 'Mrs Foyle' when she walked into the station. She was still imagining that satisfying scenario when a fearful caterwauling started up in an adjacent alleyway, and a ball of fur flashed across the road in front of her, followed by another similar shape in hot pursuit. Sam swerved to avoid first one and then the second cat, but in doing so she lost control of the bike and toppled sideways hard onto the pavement, landing on her left hip with a resounding thud that rattled all the way up to her jaw. Her left hand reached out desperately to break her fall as best she could, but Samantha finished in a heap, with one leg in the gutter and the other at an awkward angle over the metal frame of the bicycle.

"Oh, bother! Drat!" she exclaimed, more discomfited than stunned. For a start, her left stocking was laddered, and the inside of her right leg was a mess of oil from the cycle-chain, which had detached itself and hung loose from the chain ring. Her left hand was uninjured, thanks to its heavy leather driving-gauntlet, but her wrist was badly jarred. She sat up and shook it experimentally. It hurt, but not enough to signal breakage. Looking down, she saw that the outside of her left leg was grazed and bleeding from the knee down.

"Golly, what a wretched awful mess I've made of myself," Sam said out loud to no one in particular—at this hour there was no one much around to hear her fulminate in any case. So she pushed herself from underneath the bike and surveyed the damage. Chain detached. Otherwise, nothing too serious. Handlebars slightly askew. Basket still attached. Oh, well, she thought, I'll ask Brookie if he'll mend the chain for me while I clean myself up. She bit her lip in mourning for her good silk stocking, but cheered up at the thought that the oil would probably wash out of the other one. You goose, she chided herself, why did you have to go and wear your posh ones on your first day back?

You know why, came the answer. V-A-N-I-T-Y.

Turning carefully onto her knees, so as not to ladder the other stocking, Sam braced herself and climbed to her feet. In spite of her best efforts, she winced as she straightened up, and her hand flew to the small of her back, dropping then to her left buttock and round to her hip bone. "Tssss!" a sharp intake of breath signalled that she'd found the precise point of impact. She bent down again to haul the bike back up onto its wheels, and another pain caught her in the lower back, this time creeping round her belly. Gingerly, she straightened up again and limped the remaining 50 yards or so to the station, wheeling the bike alongside. She leant the cycle against the wall at the foot of the constabulary steps.

"Brookie, look at the state of me! I came off my bike just down the road." Sam was still brushing at the dirt on her skirt as she hobbled into the station.

Sergeant Brooke leant over the desk to look at her grazed leg, then hurried round to inspect the damage at close quarters. "Ouch! Looks like you've come a proper cropper there, Miss Stew—Mrs Foyle." In spite of Sam's sore circumstances, they both looked at one another and grinned. "I'll get the First Aid box," offered Brooke, eager to be helpful. "If you'd care to make your way to the washroom, I'll bring it down." He hesitated, bending down to peer more closely at her leg. "Don't look too bad though, does it?" he ventured. "'Part from your stocking. Cryin' shame 'bout that."

"No, you're right. I'll live!" Sam called cheerily as she limped along the corridor. "Somehow I'd hoped for a more graceful entrance on my first day back."

"Takes more than one tumble to keep a good woman down!" quipped Brookie in her wake. Then he realised the other sense of what he'd just said, and felt the heat rise round the back of his ears: Bleedin' Ada! When are you going to learn to shut your cake-hole, mate? And maybe keep your stripes. "I'll—ah—I'll just get you that First Aid box then, Mrs Foyle," he winced, retreating to the kitchen.

Foyle was watching from the living room window when the Wolseley pulled to a halt outside. He waited till he saw Samantha get out on the far side of the car, then turned and walked into the hall to put on his hat and coat, reaching to open the front door for her as he did so.

"You're late," he tutted teasingly, making an elaborate play of consulting his silver pocket-watch. "That was more than half an hour. Per-ritty poor show on your first day back."

Sam gestured ruefully down at her bare legs, the left one clearly grazed and covered with adhesive bandages. "'Fraid I toppled off my bike," she explained. "Brookie's mending it, but I couldn't do much about the stockings…" She pulled a bundle of flesh-coloured silk from her coat pocket. "One of them's beyond repair and the other one's so oily, I don't think it'll—"

"Sam?" Foyle's face was all attention and anxiety. He grasped her gently by both arms and turned her to the light, studying her leg. "You mean to tell me you fell? Hard?"

"Pretty jolly hard, yes," chattered Sam. "Two wretched moggies in a fight shot straight across my path, and I came a total cropper on the pavement. Thought I'd wrecked the bike, but fortunately Brookie—"

"Come… and sit down… right now." Foyle steered her into the living room and manoeuvred her onto the settee, both his hands still hovering at the sides of her arms, as if she were liable to fall apart if he weren't there to contain her. He saw that she was limping slightly. "Show me where you fell and where it hurts," he urged, seating himself beside her, his eyes examining her face in open concern.

"Well," Sam began, "my wrist aches—but Brookie put a bandage on it for support"—she drew off her glove to show him— "and my bottom's sore, and across my lower back, and if I twist in the wrong way, I ache around the front a bit," she placed a hand on her abdomen and frowned in concentration, then looked up at him. "I can drive all right, though. Really I can. I drove here without any trouble."

Christopher's hand was parked across his mouth, and Sam didn't like the worry in his eyes. "Oh, Darling, you are sweet, but I'm none the worse, really. Just miffed about my good stockings. It was pure vanity to put them on. I should have stuck to the lisle ones for work. But I was so pleased to be going back to work with you…" she reached and stroked his face. Then she planted both hands decisively on her thighs and pushed herself off the settee, wincing slightly as she did so. "Going upstairs for a pee and to change these stockings. Back in two ticks."

Christopher watched her leave the room, and sunk his head in his hands. Is this what it's going to be like now? he thought. Worrying how breakable she is. Jesus! I shouldn't even let her be doing these things now. "Sam?" he called after her, shakily. "No more cycling after today. For me? Please?"

"Don't be silly," her voice floated down the stairs "Stop treating me like china. How am I going to get from A to B when you're not around?" Foyle heard a drawer opening in the bedroom, followed by a mild 'Ouch! Drat!' By the time he'd risen from the settee and called after her, a muffled answer came: "I'm in the loo."

"You're in the… what?"

"In the loo. The lavatory, Christopher. You need to modernise. Everybody says that now."

"Well I don't," he muttered irritably sotto voce, and wandered back into the living room, running his hand round the back of his neck in quiet exasperation.

The day unfolded with a trip to the Bexhill fuel depot, following up new complaints from the Petroleum Board of suspected irregularities. "I thought we'd sorted that lot out once," grinned Sam across at Christopher, as she sat behind the wheel.

"Don't remind me," he said grimly. "That was another occasion when you sent my heart into my throat. Locking yourself in an office with a bomb, for pity's sake! Then ringing up to tell me what a fix you were in. Is it any wonder that I've got no hair?" Sam sniggered, and he turned to face her in the front seat. "This time, just—just stay in the car, hmm?"

"That's not fair, and you know it. Waiting in the car is terribly tedious, and, actually, cold, what with it being the end of December and all. With the result that my toes are likely to freeze in half an hour without the engine running which we can't have because it's a waste of fuel and there's a war on not to mention what they'll say if I sit there with the engine running at a fuel depot and if you make me stay outside I might catch my—"

"All right… all right!" Foyle quailed before the verbal onslaught. "You can come in with me, then. But stay within sight. No wandering off."

"Christopher, I never wander off. I make enquiries. Chat to people. Catch them off their guard. In fact," she grinned at him sunnily, "I'm invaluable. 'An asset to the team'—your words, not mine."

"Can't disagree with that." His smile was almost imperceptible, but she saw his lips twitch once. "How's your—um—you know…" He nodded towards her seat.

"Still sore. But I think some light exercise around the depot will do it good," Sam persisted slyly. "Too much sitting still will stiffen me up more."

Foyle pushed his tongue into his cheek, recognising that he'd been trounced by unconventional—biological—weaponry.

Business was concluded within a couple of hours, and they set off home just after lunchtime. Though it was only a short stretch for her to drive, Sam felt a dull, persistent ache from neck to ankle, and by the time they arrived back at the station, she was feeling distinctly shivery from the tension of gritting her teeth every time she depressed the clutch and pushed the Wolseley into gear.

She kept it to herself, of course, but when Foyle eventually emerged from his office, having shared his findings with Milner, and found her in the kitchen looking strained, he decided enough was enough. Handing her a glass of water, he fed her Beechams Powders; then, ignoring convention, took the wheel and drove her home. "Sorry," she told him disconsolately. "I honestly thought I could beat it."

"Can't be helped," he told her gruffly, but his knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel. "When we get back, lie flat and rest this afternoon. I have to go back into work, but I should be home again by six."

Sam stood at the bedroom window and watched Christopher pull away. I'm useless, she brooded. I've hardly managed half a day, and distracted him from his job instead of helping. And he can drive himself perfectly well. Sam sat dejectedly on the edge of the mattress and bent to undo her shoelaces. "Tsss!" Again the pain shot round her middle, travelling down her leg. She straightened up and kicked her shoes off as best she could, unbuttoning her uniform jacket and lying slowly back on top of the eiderdown. Lying horizontal was, she found, of some relief, but only if she raised her left knee slightly.

After half an hour of staring moodily at the ceiling, Sam's eyelids fluttered closed and she drifted into a doze.

Foyle pulled to a halt in the yard, and pocketed the car keys, striding into the station.

Brooke looked up from his paperwork. "Got a live one in the interview room for you, Mr Foyle, when you're ready."

"Which 'live' one would that be, Sergeant?"

"Richard Beardsley, Sir. In for questioning on suspicion of indecent assault. And pretty bolshy with it. Wanted his solicitor. They're in there, both of them." Brooke inclined his head backwards and smirked.

"Right. Indecent… assault." Foyle gave a slow blink of impatience, and pushed wearily on through the double doors. On the way to his office, he collected Milner.

"This Beardsley chap, what's he supposed to have done?"

"Well, Sir, he was ejected from The Ruby last week by the manager. A young woman reported him for feeling her knee and"—Milner's open gaze never faltered—"fiddling with himself in the stalls."

Immediately, Foyle's facial expression was that of a man who had both smelt and tasted something most unsavoury. His face lived his disgust in every unpleasant detail.

Eventually he asked, "Is the, ah, young woman a reliable witness?"

"I'd say so, Sir. Name of Peggy Callander. I spoke to her yesterday at the shop she manages in George Street. Husband's a veteran of Alamein. She's got her head screwed on, and she's most indignant. Wants Beardsley arrested. Says he's a 'mac man'."

"So. She was… out on her own? Husband still away?" Foyle probed.

"That's right, Sir. The cinema manager says Beardsley came in a long time after Mrs Callander. She maintains she was sitting in an empty row, two rows back from a group of young GIs, and Beardsley moved from his own seat and came and sat right next to her just as the main picture started."

"What have the GIs got to say?"

"Haven't been out to the base yet, Sir, but I telephoned the CO, Captain Meyers, and he was good enough to send a written statement taken from one of the soldiers involved."

Foyle sighed. "Might as well hear that too, then."

Milner produced a manila file and began to relate the account to his boss. "Privates Bailey and Rivera report hearing a woman's annoyed voice behind them, declaring loudly: 'You touch my knee again, mister, and you'll feel a nail-file in the back of your hand.' I quote Bailey here verbatim from his written account." Milner cleared his throat and launched into the GI's statement. The effect, with his modulated English accent, was vaguely comical: "'She was some feisty dame, and quite a looker. Madder than a wet hen. So Private Rivera and me go round to see what's up, and he's sitting there with his raincoat over his lap and his pants flies gaping open underneath. The guy was shifty as a shithouse rat—had guilt written all over him. So we grab him, lift him by the pants seat, and throw him down the movie theatre steps. Then we offer to walk the lady home, but she just thanks us and leaves—says she's off to speak to the guy in charge.' End of statement, Sir."

Foyle's hand was on his forehead. The muscles round his mouth were working overtime as he processed the information. "Well," he rubbed his chin. "Let's go and hear what Beardsley has to say."

"Mr Beardsley," Foyle smiled affably as he entered the room, and offered his hand. "Thank you for attending voluntarily today. My name is Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. Good afternoon, Mr…?" he nodded to Beardsley's solicitor.

"Cruickshank," supplied the portly gentleman, sitting beside Beardsley. "And I've cautioned my client to tell you nothing," he added smugly.

"Indeed." Foyle inclined his head and turned his attention to his quarry. "You felt it necessary to retain a solicitor, Mr Beardsley?" he inquired politely.

"I did. You can't be too careful. Sensitive times we live in."

Foyle tilted his head inquisitively and invited a little more detail. "Mmmsensitive, Mr Beardsley? Care to explain your concerns? Presuming, of course, they aren't the normal walls have ears variety?" Foyle chuckled encouragingly.

Beardsley joined him in the levity. "Since you ask, too many women on the loose. Husbands away. Craving attention."

Foyle gave him a pleasant smile and a twinkle. "That's your experience, is it? Out and about in Hastings?"

Beardsley's solicitor cleared his throat in warning, but Beardsley's confidence was growing in front of his new friend DCS Foyle, and he began to dig himself a comfortable hole.

"Plenty of women want squiring around, with their men overseas. But it's a tricky business when they get a dose of guilt and change their minds mid-stream, if you get my drift."

"Mrs, um, Beardsley, understanding is she?" Foyle asked nonchalantly.

"Harriet's not one to make a fuss. She hasn't been too keen since our second son was born. Likes to get me off her hands. Look, Mr Foyle, we're men of the world…"

"Precisely." Foyle nodded with a smile. "So what you're telling me is…?"

"Lonely woman, on the loose. Got involved, got nervous and got vindictive. 'Tween you and me, she just changed her mind."

"Hmm. You were in a public place, though. It's a question of public morals…" Foyle gave the impression of agonising over a minor inconvenience. "Look, perhaps at this point we should just caution you. It's only fair. And Mr Cruickshank's present, to ensure that everything's above-board. I'm sure you understand—it's just for your own, um, protection. I just need to, uh, slip out for a moment. See a man about a dog," he smiled knowingly at Beardsley, who snorted in response.

Outside in the corridor, Foyle stood examining his nails, and thinking he might quite like a bath when he got home. Wash off some of the slime, he reflected grimly, then pushed himself off the wall of the corridor and re-entered the interview room.

Beardsley smirked. "Everything as you left it? All present and correct?"

"Pretty much present. And if things aren't correct, I'm about to correct them." Foyle shoved one hand into his trouser pocket and made an expansive gesture with the other. "As if there isn't enough slime trailing across Europe in the wake of the Third Reich, without men like you oozing your particularly repellent brand of mucus over vulnerable women on the Home Front." Foyle widened his eyes, pinning Beardsley to his chair with his piercing gaze.

Beardsley's face turned from cocky to alarmed, and Cruickshank sank his head into his hands, shaking it in "told you so" fashion.

Foyle rubbed his hand across his chin and launched into a quick-fire monotone: "Richard Beardsley, I'm arresting you on suspicion of immoral conduct in a public place and indecent assault on one Peggy Callander, on Thursday, 14th December at The Ruby picture house, Hastings. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence."

He paused to allow the words to sink in, then continued at a more measured speed. "Since your solicitor is already present," he nodded respectfully to Cruickshank, "I hope you had no pressing plans for the next few hours." Foyle beamed a sardonic smile at Beardsley, and seated himself at the interview table with a flourish. "So! Preliminaries completed. Shall we start with an account of your movements last Thursday night?" he asked brightly.

When Sam woke from her doze, it was already dark outside. Once she'd found the light switch, she saw that it was six o'clock. And still no Christopher. Cursing herself for her inattention with the light, she moved off the bed to draw the blackout. As she rose, the same—and now familiar—gripping pain shot round her belly and down her leg. She winced, and hobbled to the window to pull across the curtain. Then, clutching her stomach, she limped to the bathroom.

Relieving herself, she glanced down to find a trace of blood on the paper, then another. Gasping in shock, and gripped with sudden fear, she found she couldn't—dared not—stand.

Fifteen minutes later she was still sitting there, dabbing nervously at herself and checking. Every time there was a spot of blood. Her eyes began to prick with tears. Can't stay here all night, Samantha, she sniffed. Sort yourself out and back to bed. Christopher will help you when he comes. Painfully, she pushed herself to her feet and fumbled in the bathroom cupboard for a sanitary napkin. Having applied it to herself haphazardly, in something of a daze, she dragged herself back into the bedroom, weeping quietly.

Which was how Christopher found her when he arrived home at half past seven, wrung out by dealing with the Beardsleys of this world.

It was a little after eight p.m. when Foyle hastened down the hallway to answer the doorbell. He hoped anxiously to find his family doctor and friend, Guy Grindley, on the doorstep.

Grindley, a man of around sixty-five with gentle eyes and a shock of white hair visible underneath his hat, was leaning wearily on the railings to the left of the front steps with his bag in his right hand. As Foyle opened the door, the doctor roused himself and stood, tie askew, looking as if he hadn't slept in a week.

"Christopher." Grindley transferred his bag to his left hand and greeted Foyle with a solid handshake as he entered the hallway. "I came as soon as I could. Been at a confinement. Complications kept me out all last night and then most of today. Delivered twins. Boy and a girl. I was just snatching some shut-eye on the surgery couch when you rang."

Foyle was about to thank him for his trouble, when he noticed that the doctor was rubbing at the hand he had just shaken, flexing it determinedly as if to coax the circulation down into his fingers. "You've hurt your hand, Guy?"

Grindley shook his head. "Old war wound, playing up. I had to turn the second baby—it was breech." He rubbed absently at his forearm. "I'm dead on my feet now," he stifled a yawn. "But compared to the mother… my God! That woman suffered! Both babies were born healthy though, for which the pair of us were grateful at the end of it."

Foyle clenched his jaw as he summoned images of Grindley's day. "Really appreciate this, Guy. Terribly concerned about Samantha. She's expecting, and she had a fall this morning. Now she tells me that she's losing blood."

"She's lying down?"

"She is. Upstairs."

"In that case, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to use your sink for just a second."

"Um, be my guest," Foyle raised an eyebrow, but gestured hospitably towards the kitchen.

Grindley lumbered down the hall with Foyle in tow. Arriving at the sink, he turned the cold tap on and filled a large jug that was sitting on the draining-board. Then he took off his hat, plunged his head into the sink and poured the lot straight over his head. "Got a towel?" he asked, around the noise of water gurgling down the drain.

"H-here…" Foyle handed him the kitchen towel from the side of the sink.

"Thank you." Grindley rubbed his face and hair dry, then pushed the towel into Foyle's waiting hands and reached inside his jacket for a comb. "Time passes quickly, Christopher. I hadn't even realised that you'd remarried. Congratulations. You waited too long after Rosalind."

Foyle nodded his thanks. "I was going to tell you in due course, but Sam and I were only married on Saturday."

If Grindley was in any way perturbed by the implications of this information, viewed in light of the reason for his visit, his face betrayed not a flicker. "I'd better go up and have a look at her, then," he announced. By now his hair was neatly groomed, if slightly damp. He laid a hand on Christopher's arm and fixed him with his gentle gaze. "Cup of strong tea, would you, chap? So a poor old bugger can think straight?"

"No trouble, Guy." Foyle smiled understandingly. "Be straight up with it. She's in the, um, front bedroom. You know your way."

"Indeed I do, chap. Yes, indeed I do."

Five minutes later Foyle was carrying a tea-tray up the stairs to the master bedroom. Grindley was perched on the side of the bed, gently palpating Sam's bare midriff.

"How many weeks, you say, m'dear?"

"Erm…" Sam looked embarrassed.

"Eight. And three days," Foyle interjected. Now was not the time for caginess about dates.

"You'd better show me the type of loss," said Grindley, gesturing with his head to Foyle that he should leave the room.

Sam cast Christopher a doleful glance as he withdrew. "I'll be just outside," he smiled reassuringly.

"Right, then, young lady. Date of your last monthly?"

"October the… um, 21st," mumbled Sam.

Grindley reached into his pocket and brought out a diary. "Christopher's sums are right on the nail, then. Clever beggar, isn't he? Show me what you're getting."

Sam fumbled with her underwear. After a few moments, the doctor nodded and patted her hand to indicate she could get dressed again.

"You fell, you say?"

"Came off my bike this morning. Fell on my left hip. Quite hard."

"Hmm." Grindley surveyed her left leg. "A nasty graze or two, I see. Can you lift your leg, Dear?" he placed his hand under her heel and raised it gently.

"Yes, but when it gets to there," Sam showed him, "it hurts like blazes."

"D'you know what I think?" Grindley cocked his head on one side and gave her a kindly pat.

Sam shook her head, and bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes.

"I think… you've jarred your back and slipped a disc—not badly. Just enough to give you gyp. And then you've got this bleeding. Not a lot. A spot or two. Coincidence, maybe. Perhaps you've shaken things up a bit. It's hard to say, but I can tell you this: a bit of spotting does not a miscarriage make. It's not uncommon at this stage of things. And sometimes"—he stopped to make a picture with his hands—"the sac your baby's growing in develops close to the neck of the womb, which means you get a showing just like you've had today. It normally corrects itself as the baby grows." He paused to let the information sink in.

Sam sniffed back her tears and pushed herself up on her elbows, looking hopeful. "You don't think I'm losing it then, Doctor?"

Grindley patted her hand again kindly. "No, Samantha, I don't. But my advice is this: rest up for a couple of days. Take things easy; have a warm bath to ease your muscles; don't slump when you're sitting in chairs—use a cushion to keep you upright; and stick a hot water bottle down the back of your skirt"—he winked—"whenever it's practical."

"And to think this morning I was worried about losing my job," moaned Sam. "This puts things right in perspective."

"Lose your job? What do you do, Dear?" he asked gently.

"I drive. I drive my husband."

"Your husband was going to sack you?" For some reason, Grindley found this hugely amusing. His let rip with a hearty roar of mirth, followed by a rumbling fugue of laughter. "Oh, he's a hard man!"

Hearing the merriment, Foyle stuck his head back round the bedroom door. "Everything, er, all right?" he asked warily.

"So you're going to sack your wife, you miserable item?" Grindley chuckled, looking sideways at Christopher.

"I'm doing no such thing," protested Foyle. "What's she been telling you? Sam?" He looked distinctly put out, every muscle in his face expressing utter bewilderment.

Sam shrugged, and grinned at him apologetically.

Still chortling, Grindley delved into his bag and brought out a bottle of medicine, which he handed to Christopher. "Codeine. Give it sparingly, only as required, and after three days, not at all. In my opinion, your wife's going to be all right. No lifting"—he looked pointedly at Sam, wagging his finger—"No gymnastics for a day or two"—he stared meaningfully at Foyle—"And no driving this week. It'll aggravate her back. But if I hear you've sacked her," he turned and winked conspiratorially at his patient, "you'll have me to deal with!"

Grindley moved off the bed, making way for Foyle, who sank down next to Sam and slid his hand into hers.

The doctor stretched, and yawned again. "So, how about that cup of tea now, Christopher?" As Foyle got up and handed him his tea, Grindley sank exhausted into the nearest armchair, fiddling with his collar and loosening his tie. "Ah! Biscuits! Very kind." He grabbed a fistful from the plate on the tray. "The mother's naming her boy 'Guy'," he beamed through a mouthful of crumbs, "so I'm waiving the fee! Excuse me while I wet the baby's head." He drew a leather-covered hipflask from his jacket pocket and topped up his tea.

Foyle stroked the back of Sam's hand with his thumb and mouthed, "I love you."

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

More Author's Notes:

'Mac man' was a 1940s term for sexual predators and flashers who frequented cinemas, preying on unaccompanied women. The name was derived from their trademark baggy raincoat ("mackintosh") attire, which they used to drape across their laps to conceal their nefarious doings.

Beardsley represents the 'mac man' who felt my mum's leg while she was minding her own business in the pictures back in 1943. Eat it, Beardsley. Revenge is nigh.

…

I was a bit sniffy about doctors in my notes to the last few chapters. Now to redress the balance.

In the days before the National Health Service, doctors like Guy Grindley—particularly those who practised in poorer areas—were beloved of the communities in which they worked. Very often, they would charge the rich, but treat the poor for free. In this way, their kindness and self-sacrifice made life bearable for those under their care who could not otherwise have afforded medical help. Often they worked all hours, attending sickbeds and confinements in long shifts, and their own health broke down under the strain. Quite a few of them were on the bottle; the things they had to deal with, and the burden of human sorrow they witnessed day-to-day, was doubtless overwhelming.

Guy Grindley was real. My grandmother thought the world of Dr Grindley—he saw her through most of her fourteen confinements—and in due course, sure enough, I had an Uncle Guy, named after the good man who delivered him.

…

More soon.

GiuC