L'Aimant - Chapter 19

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 19: Sam faces some home truths about work and life. Christmas at Lyminster turns into an unexpectedly familial affair.

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:

Robertson's was, and is, a UK manufacturer of preserves. For years, until its no-longer-politically-correct (more accurately, racist) emblem, the golliwog, was "retired" in 2002, Robertson's gollies were considered desirable little mascots. In return for tokens cut from jam-pot and other preserve labels, children (okay, adults too!) could send off for metal golly brooches and badges.

...

Sagely edited, as ever, by dancesabove. Thank you dances.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

"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."

Chapter 19

Wednesday, 20th December 1944

Grindley had stayed with them for another hour or so, comfortably settled in the bedroom armchair with his tea and biscuits, and neither of the Foyles begrudged him his rest. But once the doctor had left, Christopher made it his business to 'organise' Sam's recuperation. Without discussion, he retrieved his pyjamas from under the pillow and moved them into Andrew's bedroom.

Sam's protests at the new sleeping arrangements were silenced with a stern reminder of the 'no gymnastics' caution, and the utterly reasonable explanation that, this way, her spine would not be jarred by any tossing or turning in the night.

"If I stay in this bed with you," he told her, "one way or another, not one wink of sleep will be had by either partner. Don't need to spell it out. You're clever. Know the drill."

Last thing that night, Christopher appeared at Sam's bedside with a hot water bottle. "I'm married to a saint," she groaned.

"Sleep well, Mrs Saint." His eyes twinkled and he planted a lingering kiss on her eager lips before withdrawing to Andrew's bed.

Next morning, the holy man conveyed Sam's breakfast upstairs on a tray, along with sandwiches for later on. As an afterthought, he made a hasty grab for several books from one of the boxes transferred to Steep Lane from Samantha's digs, and left them for her on the bed. "So that you won't have to go up and down the stairs unnecessarily," he told her.

Although this semi-invalid treatment gave Sam the fidgets, she felt the tender concern behind it—they'd both had a rotten fright, and she knew that Christopher needed to deal with the after-effects in his own way.

An intense, freezing fog had settled on Hastings overnight, and showed no sign of clearing by the time Christopher was ready to drive to work. Temperatures had fallen to well below zero, and everything was covered in rime. The effects on exposed machinery were only too predictable: from Sam's recumbent position on the bed, she heard Christopher try—and fail four times—to start the Wolseley.

"You're going to flatten the battery if you carry on like that,"she told the ceiling and the walls.

There was a hiatus, and Sam's curiosity drew her over to the window, from where she could peer down on her husband between the curtains. The Wolseley's bonnet was folded back on its hinges and Christopher's trilbied head was bent over the engine block. After a few moments, Sam saw him unscrew a spark-plug, examine it closely, then rub at it with... with your clean, white handkerchief? she transmitted crossly. Oh, not your best linen, Christopher. For heaven's sake! There's a rag in the glove compartment! It was all she could do to restrain herself from lifting the curtain net and tapping on the window pane.

From her vantage point, some moments of ill-contained impatience later, Samantha saw her husband step away from the car and push the now very oily handkerchief back into his trouser pocket—That greasy thing, inside your nice suit-trousers? Honestly! She craned her neck to see what he would do next.

Christopher folded down the bonnet lid and closed the catch. With a look of satisfaction, he brushed at his palms then climbed back into the car. This time, when he tried the ignition, the engine sprang to life.

Sam knew she should be pleased, but all she felt was disappointment. He can do everything without my help, she told herself dismally. And this—she surveyed the suddenly unappealing bedroom chintz—will be my world soon: inside, looking through the window, with our baby. And Christopher's life will be outside with the Wolseley… and everybody else.

Sitting on the bed, lost in despondent thoughts of isolation, Sam missed the sound of the front door opening quietly and Christopher padding up the stairs. When she raised her eyes and saw him standing on the threshold of their bedroom, regarding her evenly, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Hullo. It's me again," he said.

"I thought you were still in the car." Sam patted at her chest. "You've scared the daylights out of me, creeping round like that."

"I thought you might have gone back to sleep," he countered reasonably. "So I kept the noise down."

As Sam's pulse returned to normal, an urgent worry surfaced. "Christopher! You've left the engine running! Someone could easily…"

"Quite all right," he grinned, dangling the key to the driver's door from his fingers. "All the doors are locked. But I didn't want to stop the engine. It might never start again, in this weather."

"So why are you…?"

Christopher reached into his pocket and pulled out one very oily linen handkerchief. "Outside temperature's so cold, it's apt to make my nose run. Can hardly wipe it on this 'mechanic's rag', now can I? Or on my sleeve. Bad example to the men." His handsome, lop-sided grin coaxed a little smile from Sam, but Foyle was sharp enough to sense the latent misery beneath, and possibly the cause.

Distractedly, he pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket. "Sweetheart, buck up. It's only for a while. You'll be able to come back next week. Rest and heal now. Bounce back after Christmas… hmm?" He reached down for her hand, and rubbed his thumb in gentle circles over the fan of delicate bones between her wrist and fingers.

Sam's breath hitched, and she sniffed back tears. "I'm useless," she said in a small, high voice.

Foyle frowned and sat down on the bed beside her. "Don't talk rubbish, Sam."

"I am though," she continued miserably. "I can't drive you—and even if I could, you don't need me to. And you can mend cars on your own, apparently"—this came out as a huff—"and get meals. And tend the sick. And run the house. And wash your own socks. And solve cases. Type your own case notes. Frankly, Christopher"—by now her mood was cranked up to annoyance level—"you're an utter bloody miracle!"

Foyle pursed his lips at both the jibe and the uncharacteristic language.

After a long pause, during which they both sat, hands in laps, and made no contact, he asked her gently, "What happened to 'I'm invaluable! An asset to the team', yesterday, at Bexhill? What happened to the confident, positive, optimistic, I-can-do-it Sam I know… and love?"

Sam mumbled cheerlessly into her chest. "She ricked her back, took stock, and then took fright—at the way her life is changing… and at how obviously well you cope with absolutely everything without her."

"Sam," Foyle tensed his jaw, then slid a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly. "We've been through this before. I've had to cope. With home, and work… and, well, with life. Doesn't mean to say I enjoy the effort. I can cope without your help at work… doesn't mean I want to. Coping is exhausting. And tedious." And immensely lonely, he thought.

He worked his mouth, grasping for the right way to console her. "Shortly, there'll be no choice—I shall have to cope without you—you'll have bigger fish to fry than me. When that happens, I shall miss your help enormously, but… you know things have to change soon."

Sam's tearful eyes met his. "Oh I do know all that. It's just—I was so banking on being part of the team for just a little longer, and now… this…" The tears spilled over. "This rotten luck."

Foyle heaved a sigh of resignation. "You're not in prison, Sam. Just a case of being careful. How is your back this morning, anyway? Hurting very much?"

"Not as bad as yesterday, thank you." Sam sniffed, then wiped her nose as best she could on the back of her hand. "As long as I don't have to bend."

"Right. Well…" Foyle reached into his pocket. "Against my better judgement… fancy doing a morning in the office? Reports to type. No driving. You can bring a cushion." He smirked and pointed. "That one, with the roses will, um, brighten up the old place?"

Sam grinned. "And cram a hot water bottle down the back of my skirt, as per doctor's orders?"

Foyle applied his all-purpose handkerchief to finishing the job Sam had started: he wiped her nose. "If you're sore by lunchtime, Brooke can bring you home." He took stock of the results. "Ah…your nose appears to be—um—black now. Sorry."

Sam ran a finger across her upper lip and examined the oily evidence. He does make the odd mistake, then, she told herself with relief. Then, turning to her husband ruefully, "Christopher. I'm sorry about all this. This isn't 'me' at all. And if coming to the station today doesn't work out, then no more moping. I'll just take my medicine and stay at home. All I've managed to do so far this week is drive you mad with worry."

Christopher brushed a finger down her cheek, leaving another streak of oil. He leant back to admire his handiwork, then deliberately added a stripe on her other cheek. "Well, you are my driver," he informed her archly. "Could argue you're just doing your job." He dipped his head then and kissed her on the lips. "Better go and wash your face now. I've made you look like an urchin."

Sam smiled, and rose carefully from her perch. "While you're hunting for a clean handkerchief, better dig out a fresh shirt as well. The back of your collar is a mass of greasy finger-marks. Quite disgraceful." She leant in and slowly removed his hat, placing it beside him on the eiderdown. "A dandy like yourself," she whispered past his ear, "should never mess around with engines—unsupervised."

Foyle snorted, grabbed her hips and guided her firmly down onto his lap. Placing one supportive hand at the small of her back, he reached up with the other and turned her chin to face him. "Disrespect and insubordination of this type... will get you everywhere."

Outside, there was a hiccup and a spluttering noise as the neglected Wolseley engine dropped below requisite idle-speed and stalled.

Inside, Samantha's face and neck attracted far more oily finger-marks before she was eventually allowed to go and wash them clean.

Saturday, 23rd December 1944

"Charles… Look—absolutely no need to apologise. Andrew couldn't make it, either… No—well, I've guessed where he is. And you were called away at short notice, so Alice could hardly come on her own—dodging V2 rockets up in Town, for God's sake. Yes… well, of course I do. No, nothing's hit us here in Hastings since beginning of November... Indeed. I'll second that, Charles. Anyway, about your kind invitation…"

The Foyles were about to leave Hastings to spend Christmas with Sam's parents, and Christopher was sorting out New Year arrangements for the next weekend. He and Sam had been invited to stay with Rosalind's brother, Charles Howard, and his wife.

"Um. Saturday, around six, I expect, schedules permitting… No, you're right—I wouldn't be too keen on bringing Sam up to the London flat, given these wretched rocket strikes, but since you'll be in Tunbridge Wells… I see… You have?... Oh, is she? And, ah, where's she from, exactly?" Christopher chuckled. "I'll tell Samantha. Imagine she'll enjoy that… See you both next Saturday, then… Look forward to it… Oh, that's very kind, Charles. I'll pass on your good wishes. Love to Alice. 'Bye, Charles. 'Bye."

Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow as Christopher replaced the receiver. "What shall I enjoy?"

"Andrew's Uncle Charles—sends his warmest wishes to you, by the way—has acquired a lady driver from the MTC. She hails from Arundel, just up the road from you at Lyminster."

"Fancy! Did Commander Howard tell you her name?"

"Aah—what was it? Georgina. Yes. Georgina Rose."

Sam thought hard for a moment. "Rose… We do know a Doctor Rosefrom Arundel. He's retired, but sometimes he fills in at Lyminster and takes surgery when Doctor Stirling can't. I saw him once or twice myself before I moved to Hastings. Lovely old chap, actually. Must be—ooh—seventy by now. Wouldn't it be funny if they were related?"

"Soon find out, next weekend. She'll be spending New Year at the Howards'. She's staying for convenience' sake—Charles never knows when he might be summoned to the Admiralty, or up to Liverpool. So you'll be able to swap stories about—um—driving us old chaps around the country." Sam saw the corner of her husband's mouth twitch. But otherwise, not a flicker to betray that he was anything but serious.

"I may have to vet my anecdotes, in that case," she called back as she made her way upstairs, "otherwise, Miss Rose might get the wrong idea about her duties."

Foyle cleared his throat. "Well, whatever you feel is, um, appropriate. You ready, then? Should be on our way, if we want to be at your parents' before dark. About to ring for a taxi now."

"Nearly done, Darling," Sam called down to him breezily. "I'll bring a travel rug, in case the heating in the train compartment conks out."

"Good thinking, Mrs Foyle." He privately acknowledged it would be a case of 'when' the heating failed, rather than 'if'.

"Actually, I might just fill that hot water bottle I've grown so attached to in the past few days, and secrete it about my person."

"Devil of a good idea. Something to warm my hands on, while we're on the move."

"I meant for me."

"Mmmexactly. You hold the bottle. I hold you."

The train drew into Littlehampton thirty minutes late, causing Sam and Foyle to miss their connecting bus to Lyminster. Though they filled some of the intervening minutes drinking tea in the railway station tearoom, waiting for the next bus, the time eventually came for them to stand outside, in case the bus were to arrive and leave without them.

Sam draped the travel rug around her shoulders for extra warmth, but the persistent freezing fog still left her shivering. Christopher opened his Crombie and drew her close against him, wrapping the overcoat flaps as far around her as they would go. The hot water bottle she'd been hugging on the journey had gone cold, so she unscrewed the stopper and was about to stoop and empty its contents down the nearest drain, when Christopher took it from her.

"No bending."

Sam beamed at him over her shoulder as she settled back under his coatflaps.

The bus finally hove into view and rattled to a halt. Its driver, seeing a young lady, pinched with cold and swaddled in a rug, wrapped up in what looked like her father's arms, took pity on the poor thing, and directed her towards a seat right next to the heating vent. "Come on up then, Miss, you look perished."

"Honestly, you're a lifesaver!" Sam grinned back at her benefactor, continuing chattily, "The driving conditions must have been awful for you today. I wouldn't want to be behind the wheel in such poor visibility."

"Some of the worst I've seen for ages, love. But Lord knows—what with driving in the dark and nothing but slits for 'eadlights year on year, you gets so you could do it blindfold. Anyway, Miss, you settle yourself there. Soon be toasty warm."

Christopher smiled quietly, nodding to the driver, and loaded their cases into the overhead racks, inwardly proud at his young wife's easy charm with strangers.

As there were very few passengers, Sam's chatty friendliness bought them the favour of being dropped right at the gate of the vicarage, with a cheery "Merry Christmas to you, Miss, and to you, Sir!" This was a welcome bonus, as it saved them an ice-cold trudge with cases—not that Sam was allowed to carry much beyond her handbag and gas-mask. Christopher gathered up their luggage without a word, and inclined his head for her to precede him.

Answering the door to his daughter and son-in-law that evening, Iain Stewart had the look of a man with weighty problems on his mind. Pale-faced, drawn, cardigan wrongly buttoned and stained with egg-yolk—which had clearly been there since breakfast-time—he was quite apparently putting on a brave face for his guests.

"Samantha! My dear child! Thank goodness! It was getting late, and I'm not keen on your being out after dark in this freezing cold. Christopher! Delighted to see you. Come in. Come in."

"It's all right, Daddy, really," Sam reassured her father, somewhat taken aback by his pronounced anxiety. "Christopher was with me, remember."

"Oh, of course—of course. Old habits… sorry, Christopher. I'm sure you understand…"

"Perfectly all right, Iain," Foyle answered genially, reasoning that he'd probably walked in on another domestic ripple between man and wife that was, fortunately, none of his business.

Sam shot Christopher a do-you-think-he's-all-right look and was rewarded with an unhelpful shrug as her husband deposited their cases in the hallway and followed Iain casually down the corridor into the sitting room.

Geraldine was installed on the settee, the very image of studied calm, knitting from a pattern, with her glasses on her nose. She looked up briefly over her spectacles, registered the happy fact that company had arrived, and pushed her woolly bundle hastily aside, poking it in haphazard fashion down the side of the settee. "Christopher! Samantha, Darling. Splendid! Now Christmas can begin in earnest!"

She pulled off her spectacles and rose to greet them with a kiss apiece, grasping both of Sam's hands in hers, and pulling her daughter down to sit beside her.

"Oops! Careful, Mummy. I've ricked my back a bit. Can't twist too well, yet." This was all that Sam was going to share on the subject, since she and Christopher had already made a pact that her miscarriage fright would not come up for discussion over Christmas—No point in alarming them. It's over now.

"Anyway, how are you both?" Sam looked pointedly at her mother and then across at her father.

"We're very well, Darling. Quite on top of things, aren't we, Iain?" Geraldine stretched her eyes and mugged encouragingly at her husband.

"Never better," came the over-cheerful reply.

"Your father and I have made mince pies," Geraldine informed Samantha proudly. She turned to Iain. "Show me where you've put them, Dear."

"You know where I've p—Yes, my sweet." Iain patiently moved aside to let his wife lead him from the room. Clearly, Geraldine felt something needed to be discussed in private.

"Iain," Geraldine hissed, en route to the kitchen, "there is egg-yolk on your cardigan. And the buttons are done up wrong. What will Christopher think? He is always so well turned out."

Iain glanced down, examining his 'at home' attire. "Well, it must have been like this since this morning. It can't possibly be that bad if you've only just noticed. Why didn't you tell me earlier? I could have cleaned it off, or changed."

"I really haven't been looking. I've been too busy with my knit—Oh. I see. Feeling neglected, are we, Iain?"

Iain glared at his wife. "If Christopher's the man I take him for, he'll think a chap has every right to look relaxed in his own home."

"Relaxed is not the same as rumpled and messy," she told him sharply. "Don't go to pieces on me now, Iain. It's really not the time."

Iain pulled at his cardigan and scratched half-heartedly at the egg. Geraldine took hold of his wrist in exasperation. "Oh… just… come to the sink, and I'll endeavour to remove the yolk."

"Well, now," retorted Iain, flexing his slumped shoulders as if lifting a weighty wooden frame, "wouldn't that be nice?"

In due course Geraldine swept back into the sitting room with a plateful of mince pies and a re-buttoned, sponged-down Iain in tow.

"Wherever did you get the mincemeat, Mummy?" Sam asked, through a mouthful of shortcrust pastry.

"Believe it or not, the pantry. I moved two storage jars to clean the top shelf—

where I never go—and there, cheeky as you like, was a large jar of Robertson's. Your father (I ask you!)"—she raised her eyes to the ceiling for Samantha's benefit—"has saved you the golly token. The jar must date back well before the war."

Christopher paused mid-mouthful and surreptitiously inspected the inside of his pie. Sharp-eyed Geraldine caught him doing so. "Oh, don't worry, Christopher," she reassured him. "I tried one out on Iain first. Perfectly edible," she craned her neck to Iain, "aren't they, Dear?"

Iain smiled tightly, still smarting from the kitchen episode.

"Well it certainly, um, tastes nice," offered Christopher, recovering his manners smoothly.

Sam was unconcerned with dates—I mean, beggars can't be choosers, it's not as if she's cooked the contents of an old Egyptian urn!—and wolfed down her own pie entirely uncritically. Once she'd finished chewing, she slid her hand between the cushion and the arm of the settee and pulled out Geraldine's knitting pattern, curious as to what her mother had been making. Yellow baby bootees! And a matching matinee jacket and hat! "Oh, these are simply adorable, Mummy. I love them. And the baby will love them, too. Thank you so much! Christopher, come and see what Mummy's knitting for the baby."

Now, there were a number of choices open to Geraldine for handling this misunderstanding. She could lie; divert; postpone; or tell the honest truth. Subdivisions of the "honest truth" option were: reserved; apologetic; tactful; or forthright. After very brief consideration—roughly amounting to the time it took her to blink—Sam's mother cranked the 'forthright' option up a notch, and opted for 'between the eyes'. She walked across the sitting room and plucked the knitting pattern from her daughter's fingers.

"Darling, you can knit your own. This one's for me. You're not the only one who's going to have a baby in the summer. In fact, I might just beat you to it."

Christopher's eyes widened into saucers, his mouth still full of pre-war mincemeat. He pushed himself well back into his armchair, consciously demoting himself to the role of bystander. Wedged between the ample cushions, eyes wandering between Geraldine, Sam and Iain, he laboriously chewed and swallowed his current mouthful. Laboriously, because his mouth had gone quite dry.

Iain shot a look at his daughter. The scarlet of his cheeks soon spread to his entire face, accentuating the pallor of his grey-blue eyes.

Sam turned an incredulous gaze on her father and uttered one word: "Daddy?"

"It's true, Darling," he told her simply, fixing his eyes steadily on hers. "As your mother says, a brother or a sister. In the summer." His eyes were gentle, worried pools, mining her face for a reaction.

"How…?" Sam's shell-shocked question was clearly not the response that Iain had hoped for. He plunged his hands into his pockets and looked down.

"Sam…" Foyle, seeing Iain's discomfort, emerged from his spectator's reverie and leant forward in his chair. "Think it's, um, pretty obvious, Sweetheart…"

"Oh, don't be silly, Christopher. I know how. What I mean is, how come?"

Foyle grimaced, "Think that's, um, probably the same question." A twist of pained indulgence pulled at one side of his lips.

"Thank you, Christopher," interjected Geraldine, "but I'm happy to deal with the how come for the benefit of Samantha's curiosity. Darling," she turned to her daughter, "your father and I made love without taking sensible precautions because we thought that I was too old to conceive—how wrong we were; your father is embarrassed and upset, so please don't make things worse; and I," she paused, then ran on, "have been distinctly peaky in the mornings, and knitting bootees like the blazes to calm my frayed old nerves. Now I hope that sets things straight for you?"

Sam's face flushed pink, her head tilted as she digested her mother's words. She opened her mouth briefly, only to shut it again. With one shake of her head, as if to clear the cobwebs, she spoke in a severely hurt tone bordering on anger. "Will you BOTH" she gasped, looking from her mother to Christopher and back, "please STOP treating me like a CHILD?"

The silence in the room was leaden in that moment.

"Sam…" Christopher dipped an ill-advised toe into troubled waters.

"You, particularly!" Sam rounded on him. "How could you even think I'd judge this unkindly after everything we've been through in the last few weeks? Not to mention Andrew and his rotten letter! What sort of person do you take me for?" She gave him such a fierce glare, he blinked and stared into his lap.

Sam turned to face her mother, now standing next to her father across the room. "I'm angry, Mummy," she said, remaining carefully calm, "with the doctor. Not only did he try to feed you... um"—Sam grasped for the term her mother had favoured—"snake oil, he also told you—and I quote: 'your body is shutting shop on reproduction'."

"Indeed he did, Darling," Geraldine conceded, "but he failed to mention the obligatory closing-down sale. So here we are. Ah, well, silly me." She shrugged and peered cajolingly up at Iain, who was now regarding Sam with something verging on apology. "And silly, silly us. We got a bargain that we hadn't bargained for."

There was an awkward silence. Geraldine broke it with an apology to Sam. "I'm sorry I was patronising, Darling. I've been terribly on edge. We both have. But it's harder on your father…" She inclined her head towards Iain, widening her eyes at Sam to hint that she should take the initiative.

Sam's face was all tearful affection. "Daddy, please understand, I'm not judging, I'm just worried. This is such a big thing at Mummy's age. Who has babies at forty-nine?"

"Forty-eight, Darling," Geraldine responded sharply. "You'll have me in my grave before my time. I shan't be forty-nine until October, and by then…"

"Oh you know what I mean, Mummy."

"Mrs Treece," Iain chimed in. "She had a baby girl last year. She must be round about your mother's age."

Sam wasn't comforted. "But Mrs Treece has had—wait a minute—eight, hasn't she? It's not the same. Mummy's—well—she's out of practice!"

Geraldine's hand crept across her lips, to mask a smile. "Darling, never fear. The channels are unobstructed. And your father will look after me"—she gave Iain's arm a squeeze and grinned gamely—"now that he's emerging from the shock."

Christopher regarded Sam's father with pained concern. "How long have you—um—known, Iain?"

Iain looked up, clearly relieved to hear a question he could answer. "It became apparent the morning after the wedding. Geraldine recognised the signs, and the doctor has confirmed this week. Late July or early August."

Sam rose to embrace her mother. "Then our babies might even share a birthday. They'll grow up together, Mummy," she said merrily. "You'll see."

Iain stepped up then to gather both his women in his arms, and Christopher stood, hands in his pockets, by his chair, watching a little enviously from the figurative kennel Sam had put him in.

Eventually, Iain released his daughter with a soft kiss on her forehead, and turned her gently towards her husband, whispering in her ear, "Forgive us our trespasses."

Seeing what a lonely, chastised figure Christopher was cutting across the room from their little family group, Sam's annoyance dissolved. She closed the distance between them and slid her arms under his jacket, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Am I forgiven, then, Sam?" he asked, pulling his hands from his pockets and folding her to him.

"I was probably a teensy bit hard on you. But you almost deserved it." Wishing to give him a quick way out of the doghouse, she pointed to the rest of the mince pie languishing on his plate. "Do you want that? If not, I'll have it." Christopher pulled his cheek between his teeth and handed her the plate. His eyes crinkled in mirth. He really did enjoy his wife in moments such as this.

"Excellent!" declared Geraldine, clapping her hands. "Everybody's sorry. Christopher; me; Samantha; Daddy; Mister Stirling Emmmm Deeeeee… Care for a sherry, anyone?"

"Don't mind if I do," said Christopher. "Some mud in Hitler's eye can't hurt. How about you, Sam?"

"Ra-ther!" Sam beamed. She was now accustomed to the new regime on alcohol chez Stewart, and extremely partial to a Harvey's Bristol Cream.

Iain bent to root around inside the designated liquor cupboard. "Hmm. I see we also have a bottle of Aubrey's home-made greengage wine, if anyone prefers..?"

"Nunno!"

"Er, sherry for me."

"Mmm. Definitely, sherry, thank you."

So that was settled. Aubrey's bottle stayed undisturbed.

Sam planted herself on her husband's lap, and spoke through a mouthful of crumbs. "Mummy, you know I'm a jolly awful knitter…? I wonder—would you… do me one of those as well? Then they could be like twins when we go out together."

"I hope this doesn't mean I end up doing all the work for two pregnancies," sighed Geraldine.

"Of course not!" Sam beamed. "If a wheel falls off your pram or something, I'm your girl!"

In bed that night, Geraldine lay staring at the ceiling. "The doctor intimated that it might not run to term, but I've resolved to prove him wrong. Indeed, I seem to have a record of doing precisely that."

Iain chuckled, "That you do, my darling."

"But Iain, if anything should happen to me, let Samantha take the baby."

Iain considered the implications of what she had just told him. "Now, why would I do that?" he asked her softly. "Not that you're going anywhere."

"Iain, it would be too difficult for you on your own. Let Samantha take…"

"I should give up my child? Because I'm… what? Incompetent? Old? A messy eater, careless about dropping egg?"

Geraldine sighed sadly. Ian said "Bibs."

"I beg your pardon—?"

"Bibs. One for me, one for the baby. We can both be messy eaters together."

Geraldine sighed again. "You're not taking this seriously."

"On the contrary, I'm taking it to heart. I hear you. But please, let's go to sleep now. We have three joyful but gruelling days ahead of us, and I don't want to spend them contemplating your demise and my inadequacy."

"I'm only thinking you could let her…"

"Not before I lose my faculties or my health. Gigi… don't… consign me to the scrap heap. Plenty of my parishioners will be happy to do that in your stead."

"Iain, I didn't mean that you… I'm sorry, Darling. You're a sweet and gentle, caring man, but I feel so guilty bringing you this responsibility when you're getting ready to retire. And I am a little frightened. If this leaves me… ill, or weak, how will you cope?"

"The Lord will give me strength. And we shall see a specialist. Get you seen at Arundel. Stirling doesn't fill me with confidence. So if there's any possibility that this will damage your health, we should… really we should take advice."

"Iain?" Geraldine turned in bed and gave him a shocked look.

He shook his head. "Of course not. I just mean, I want you seen by a proper obstetrician. This is not the time to trust to… luck. The Good Lord has his hands already full, and we should not presume on his indulgence."

Geraldine turned on her side, and rested her head on Iain's shoulder.

"'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall'," he said. "Have we been utter fools, my dear?"

"Utter. We were lazy—underestimated each other."

"I fear that tongues will wag incessantly the moment we announce the news."

"Well, let them. You must write a sermon on the subject of the marriage vows: 'With my body I thee worship'. I don't recall any codicil that mentions switching off at sixty. Any tuttings from the parish ladies will be sour grapes or jealousy, if you ask me. Merry Christmas, Darling."

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

More Author's Notes:

Geraldine and Sam shouldn't be drinking sherry. We know that now. Back in the Forties, they didn't know that.

At least I haven't got the pair of them smoking like chimneys.

…

Gigi? Well, I couldn't have him calling her Gerry, could I?

…

More soon.

GiuC