L'Aimant – Chapter 21

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 21: Constable Davis finds he has competition. Sam and Foyle discuss rules of behaviour on duty. Eastbourne learns its manners.

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:

I've borrowed beingrowdy's smart dog Hector (from "Home is where the heart is") for this chapter. Hector is a German Shepherd—a breed known in the UK and Commonwealth countries mostly as 'Alsatian'. The original breed name, (a translation of Deutscher Schäferhund), fell out of favour after World War I. Notwithstanding the 'official' renaming of the breed, a Brit of the World War II era would have recognised a German Shepherd when he saw one, and would have still thought of it as such. A dog by any other namewould growl as scary.

…

'Spiv' is World War II slang for a petty criminal who deals in illegal, specifically black-market, goods. The wartime spiv's trademark garb was a double-breasted pin-striped suit, dark shirt, loud tie and battered trilby hat, pushed back rakishly on the head. Furthermore, no self-respecting spiv would be seen dead without a Douglas Fairbanks Jr. pencil-moustache and a ciggie hanging from his lower lip.

…

dancesabove is my lovely beta. Considering the doggy content of this chapter, I feel I should rename her danceswithwolves ;o)

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

Foyle drew back the heavy damask drapes, allowing the bright low-angled winter sunshine to stream into the bedroom.

Scrunching her eyes, Sam raised a hand to stave off the piercing brilliance. "Golly! After a pretty jolly awful week of weather, the light is simply breathtaking."

Foyle turned to take in the vision of his wife, propped up in bed, bare-armed, gorgeous and dishevelled in the sunlight. He climbed back beside her under the covers, and pressed kisses to her upper arm. "The sunshine has nothing on my lovely, sunny wife. Thank you for last night," he hummed. "And by the way… the hat forgives you, Darling."

"Oh, that poor old hat!" Sam stroked the soft, thin fuzzy hair on top of Christopher's head. "I'll soon sort it out."

"Will you?" he smiled into her arm, not really caring one way or another any more.

"Absolutely! Re-blocking hats is a complete doddle—we all learnt how in Girl Guides, and"—she added proudly—"I even got my milliner's badge. Your trilby will be ship-shape and Bristol fashion in time for when we leave on Monday." An upturned saucepan and a kettleful of steam should do the trick, she thought.

"No woolly hat to travel home in?" enquired Foyle, with more than a hint of relief.

"Your dignity is safe, my darling." Sam ran a hand over his head, then tucked her chin into her neck to focus on his sparsely-covered scalp. She added musingly, "Although, you know, I might just try to knit you a nightcap, anyway—to keep your noggin warm on winter nights."

Foyle closed his eyes and edged his crown into the crook of her armpit, resting his cheek on her breast. "No, thanks," he said. "You do that pretty well, already."

Chapter 21

Wednesday, 27th December 1944

DCS Foyle arrived back from his family Christmas to find an animal in the station foyer. It wasn't Beardsley, and it wasn't Davis. Bizarrely, in Foyle's absence, the constabulary appeared to have acquired a German Shepherd—Foyle corrected himself—an Alsatian dog. It sat patiently on its haunches before the front desk, panting and surveying the swing doors at the station entrance with an expression of alert interest. The dog paused in its vigil only to assess—and then dismiss—Foyle as of no immediate import.

Foyle met his sergeant's eye and gestured towards the canine sentinel, one eyebrow raised. "Umm?"

"Morning, Sir. You've noticed our new recruit, then?" Brooke grinned and leant over the counter to scratch the animal between its pert black ears. "He answers to the name of Hector. Member of the uniformed brigade."

Foyle grimaced and rubbed the corner of one eye with his little finger. "…and the bright idea of whom?" Hugh, as if I didn't know.

"Superintendent Reid's brought him in as a sniffer-cum-pursuit hound."

"Rrright."

Brooke's face assumed a cheeky grin, "But we're going to put 'im on the front desk 'stead of Davis—raise the bar a bit."

Hector yawned.

"Well, um," Foyle tilted his head and stretched his eyes, "I'm sure he'll be a valuable addition to the team." He turned and pushed on through the doors into the corridor.

Brookie glanced idly behind himself to see what his constable was up to. Davis had been having a bit of trouble with his chest since Christmas, and this morning he was wheezing like a pair of rusty bellows.

"Nasty cough you've got there, Davis. Too many Woodbines over Christmas, was it? Shouldn't smoke so much, should ya?"

"No, Sarge." Davis cleared his lungs with hearty tussive force.

"Bloody hell, Eddie. Spare us."

"Sorry, Sarge. Me muvva drove me up the wall all 'oliday, so I dug into me winnings"—he dropped his voice and cocked his head towards Foyle's office. "from the you-know-what. Ended up smoking the ruddy lot from nerves." With that, Davis put his fist up to his mouth and hacked like a consumptive in a freezing garret.

Hector whined and puckered his furry brows, looking pleadingly up at Brooke. This drew an irritable scowl from the normally even-tempered Davis.

"Wotchoo lookin' at the dog like that for, Eddie?" Brooke parked both hands on his hips. "He ain't done nothing."

"Well, 'e's German, innee, Sarge? Can't be too careful, can ya?"

A snort of pure disdain from Brooke.

Davis' voice took on an aggrieved tone. "But Sarge? You ain't really goin' to give the dog my job…?"

Brooke looked at his constable wearily. Jesus wept! "Go and put the kettle on, you daft bugger. And bring a bowl o' water for Herr Hector, here."

"Sarge…?" Something was still bothering Davis.

"What."

"'Ave I got to wait on the dog, an' all?"

"Well, put it this way, Davis. If you stand there hopin' that the dog'll put the kettle on and wait on you, you'll 'ave a bloody long wait."

Sam strode indoors from parking the Wolseley, and, spotting a four-legged friend, made straight for Hector's eager muzzle and his ears.

"Hell-oo, boy. Aren't you splendid! Yeuuusss!"

Hector stretched his neck so that his muzzle nudged her lap, and screwed his eyes shut, growling softly at the attention.

"He doesn't do that when I scratch his ears, Mrs Foyle." Brooke leant forward, resting chin on hand, the better to observe Sam's budding friendship with the dog. "What's your secret?"

"I honestly don't know." Sam beamed up at him. "Dogs just like me. Always have done. What's he doing here, Brookie? What's he called?"

"Mr Reid's idea. He reckons we need something that can run faster than the spivs. Name's Hector, and he's trained to home in on shifty-looking blokes in pin-striped suits and trilbies." Brookie's mind made mischief with that image, and he broke into a grin. "Mr Foyle—he hasn't got a pinstripe, has he? I'd 'ate to see him with a big 'ole in his trouser-seat."

Sam's peals of laughter echoed through the station, finally drawing her husband—who'd been eavesdropping—out of his office. Foyle took in the scene, and shot Sam a 'slow burn' look. "When you're, um, quite ready, Sam?" He cast Brooke a hooded sideways glance before bringing his eyes to rest again on his wife. "Paperwork. Reports to type. Then Eastbourne." He swivelled on his toe to head back to his office.

"Be right there, Sir," she called to his departing back. Sam finished playing with Hector's ears, and earned a farewell bark, accompanied by the thump of an enthusiastic tail against linoleum.

"Well," sighed Sam, "sorry, Brookie. Must dash. 'His Master's Voice'. But"—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—"I think we're all right on the suits front. Fairly sure he doesn't own a pinstripe. And, from memory, he only looks shifty when he's telling people that he's 'caught one this big'!" Sam held her hands a good two feet apart, grinning broadly. She gave Brooke a parting wave before pushing through the door into the corridor.

"You lucky hound," mouthed Brooke to Hector. The dog gazed after Sam and whined.

Sam made her way down to her husband's office. She could see his coat and trilby on the hat stand through the half-open doorway, but no sign of Christopher. Not seeing him anywhere, she leant back and called out into the corridor, "Christopher…?" Getting no reply, she stepped inside the office, puzzled.

The door closed quietly behind her and Foyle emerged from behind it.

Sam started. "Oh! For goodness sake! I called…" She gave him a stern look. "Hiding out in your own office, Mr Foyle?"

"Flirting in the station foyer, Mrs Foyle?"

"Flirting? With a dog?" Her face spelt utter bewilderment.

"With Sergeant Brooke."

"Oh, nonsense. Christopher! I never flirt with Brookie. We just get on well. We horse around. Don't tell me you're jealous?"

"Mmmnot seriously. Just that there's work to do..."

"Yes. Paperwork. And typing. You said just now. And Eastbourne, after."

"Hmm." Foyle manoeuvred Sam flush against the inside of the door and pushed his lips against her ear. "So… you're fond of dogs?"

"Suppose I am, quite." Sam's eyes involuntarily fluttered closed as she struggled to maintain her concentration on the topic. "Yes—I'd say I am."

"German Shepherds are a clever breed. Obedient. Loyal. Energetic. They need exercise, though."

"They do?" Her mouth curled into a smile, hands creeping up to rest on his shoulders.

"Mmm. Lots. And regular. Or they become—um—anxious, and they bark a lot."

"Accuse their wives of—oh! Mmmm—flirting?"

"And they chew at things."

"Their cheeks?"

"The furniture. They fret if they're abandoned for long periods."

Sam pleaded with the ceiling. As if we're talking about Hector! "Should I be checking your desk for teeth-marks then? Five whole minutes of neglect from your—your handler. Hardly very long."

"Seemed longer. Brooke would have kept you chatting. The men love you. The dog, apparently, loves you." Foyle grasped her waist and planted his lips over hers. "But I married you," he mumbled into her mouth. "And I require you in here with me."

"Christopher—" Sam disengaged her lips.

"Mmm?"

"Reminding you there's work to do."

"Fine. Just a moment." Foyle resumed the kiss, angling his head sideways to gain better purchase. His hands slid up her ribcage and lingered over the rough fabric of her tunic, but she caught his hands and halted the embrace.

"Shame on you! You know better than this. We're in your office. It's broad daylight. And a working day. Only last week you were laying down the law on conduct. And I quote: 'My earlobes are off limits.' So…"

"So?"

"So, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Yes. Crass of me." Foyle stroked her arms and pushed himself away. Leaving her plastered to the inside of the door, he cleared his throat, and turned towards his desk.

"I say!" protested Sam. "You didn't have to cut things off quite so abruptly."

"Right you are." Foyle spun neatly on his toes and resumed his previous position, leaning into her, dispensing kisses.

Reports got typed, but not for ten delicious minutes, and only then because they heard approaching footsteps in the corridor and lost their nerve.

Later that morning they were en route to Eastbourne, and Foyle's hand was resting on the back of Sam's seat, inches from the soft wisps of hair at the nape of her neck.

He cleared his throat. "On-duty conduct. Rules. We need to make some."

"Fire away. I'm all ears for these so-called rules. I bet you'd break them first." She smiled broadly forwards through the windscreen. "As I recall, you broke them in the first place: 'I'm a fraud. I didn't ask you here to be hospitable'," she quoted, with a perky grin. "But I'm jolly glad you did, or else we'd still be Sir and Sam and end of story."

Foyle hummed in mild irritation. "I can see I need to watch myself with you. I think you file away my every utterance, just so that you can quote it back to me later. Your brain is like a sponge."

"I say! Steady on!" Sam was indignant.

"Oh, it's a compliment." He paused. "You do distract me, though."

"It's not deliberate. Work makes me chipper—being in the thick of things excites me."

"Precisely. Love to see it. Trouble is… it excites me, too. Regrettably. And I have a job to do."

Sam pulled her eyes from the road and risked a sympathetic sideways glance. "Sorry, Christopher. But it's… well, it's bound to wear off after a bit."

Foyle's face took on a look of some alarm. "Christ, Sam. I hope to God it doesn't."

Sam suppressed a smirk. "Well, I shall have to stop work in February anyway, shan't I?" she fished.

"Or March," he hedged. I shouldn't keep her on…

"Or March." Sam grinned. Another month before he makes me leave!

As planned, they 'did' the regular Eastbourne run. Foyle swept into the station, Sam in tow, to a chorus of "Morning, Sir" from the uniforms who saw him enter—and those included Constable Hollyoak, whose gossip had precipitated Parkins' failed attempt to carpet Foyle.

Naturally, it hadn't been Hollyoak himself who'd blabbed to Parkins. Hollyoak was, in Parkins' universe, the rough equivalent of an amoeba. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that information had been passed up the hierarchy by the man in charge here—most likely after overhearing gossip in the kitchen.

Foyle halted at the front desk, and placed both sets of fingertips proprietorially on the counter. "My wife"—he let the term sink in—"would like some tea while she waits, constable," he told Hollyoak icily, fixing him with a gaze of studied indifference. Then, without a backwards look, he walked purposefully along the corridor in search of Chief Inspector Starkey.

"We'll see to it, Sir." SergeantTemple stepped hurriedly up to the desk, and answered on behalf of his subordinate, who was apparently struck dumb. Hollyoak stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and nervous.

"Sort that out Holly," continued Temple smoothly, one eye on the DCS's back until he disappeared. "Morning, Mrs Foyle." Temple gave his lady visitor a polite nod that didn't quite verge on the friendly.

Sam fancied she sensed some tension in the atmosphere. In all their previous trips to Eastbourne, Christopher had never once demanded tea for her, and as the station was generally busy, no one had ever offered. Today was somehow different, and her husband's manner openly abrupt. She had missed out on the Eastbourne trip the week before Christmas because of her bad back, so this was their first visit together as a married couple. It struck her, then, that Christopher was probably asserting her change of status. But why was he doing it in such a tetchy fashion? Not having been forewarned by her husband of any issues with the Eastbourne people, she put his manner down to nerves, and resolved to ask him later. Meanwhile, there were waters to smooth: "Morning, Sergeant. Don't worry if you're busy," she told Temple amiably. "I'll just wait here and read until they're finished."

"No trouble, Madam. Please take a seat." Temple gave her a quick smile that didn't reach his eyes. Though he'd not been personally involved in spreading gossip about the DCS and his driver, he was all too aware of Hollyoak's involvement. Completely so, really, from the moment Starkey had called him in and blustered "What's this I hear…?!" Temple, personally, would have left the whole lot well alone, and he told the Chief Inspector as much. But Starkey never listened to him anyway, the prat—uncle in bloody Whitehall, and an eye on Foyle's job. Yeah. That was all it was.

So, to put it mildly, Temple was more than unhappy with the fallout on his patch. On balance he would really rather not have the area chief, whom he respected, giving his staff the Arctic glare every visit. The girl—Foyle's wife—looked pleasant enough, but at the end of the day he'd prefer she wasn't sitting on a bench decorating his foyer and attracting curious stares from his men. Bad form all round.

Blissfully ignorant of the dilemma she'd provoked some weeks before, Sam settled down to read the book she'd brought along to pass the time. A Christmas present from her mother, it was Rose Franken's 'Claudia: The Story of a Marriage'.

"Darling," Geraldine had written on the fly-leaf. "Enjoy this for its warmth and wisdom, but don't compare yourself to Claudia. Her sweet but dim approach to life does nothing for a modern woman's reputation. On the other hand, her husband, David, is adorable, and you will surely want to add him to your small but desirable collection of wise and wonderful men. Mummy."

Sam had barely reached page five, when the sound of a male throat being cleared drew her attention away from her novel.

"Your tea, Miss—Madam. No sugar left. Sorry." The hand offering her a pale green china cup and saucer belonged to a fair-haired young man several years her junior, with light brown eyebrows and worried-looking hazel eyes.

Sam grinned conspiratorially. "Anyone would think there was a war on, wouldn't they, Constable…?"

"Hollyoak, Madam. Yes, I s'pose they would." He shot back a nervous grin. "We've got some saccharin out back..." he offered.

Sam pulled a face. "No thanks, I never think it tastes the same, do you?"

"Know exactly what you mean," he nodded. "Enjoy your cuppa, now." He made as if to withdraw, but Sam carried on.

"The children miss the sugar most, of course. And old people. And expectant…"—she checked herself—Oh for goodness sake, be quiet, Samantha!—then continued in a smaller voice, "um… mothers."

Hollyoak blinked at her. He should have left things there, but something made him open up a crack. "I… let my gran have mine." Sam's eyes lit up with interest, so he ran on. "She spits the tea out otherwise, and Mum goes spare. So I give my sugar ration to gran. A terrible sweet tooth, she has. And she hasn't got much else in life, now. So I give her mine, and welcome." He wrinkled his nose. "It was strange at first, drinking tea without, but I don't miss it any more."

"That's kind of you, Constable Hollyoak. I'm sure your gran appreciates the gesture."

He shrugged. "Not sure she does. She doesn't really know us any more. But she knows if there's no sugar in her tea." He gave Sam a resigned smile.

Samantha's face was softly radiant with admiration. "Thank you for the tea, Constable Hollyoak."

"Everybody calls me Holly. And you're welcome, Mrs Foyle."

Returning to her book, Sam was soon absorbed by tales of Claudia's hapless misadventures and her husband's sweetly tolerant reactions. Somehow, she noted, Claudia always managed to land on her feet, and astonish David with her offbeat wisdom. I wouldn't mind astonishing Christopher, she thought, outside the—er... She looked up sharply, hoping nobody had seen her blush. Wish I could do something he can't.

Over an hour passed, and Christopher was still nowhere in evidence. At one point, Samantha fancied she could hear an agitated voice along the corridor, followed by her husband's more measured, muted tones. But it was only momentary, so she turned her attention back to Claudia and David. The heroine's latest scatterbrained doings were still making her chuckle when Hollyoak appeared before her with a second cuppa.

And this time there was sugar in the tea.

"Good heavens! Where did you magic that from, Holly?" Sam enthused. "I thought you said there was none."

Holly nodded. "That's right, I did. But I asked around the station. One of the lads had brought some in, and he offered it. Got to keep your strength up, Mrs Foyle…"—Sam looked at him curiously, but he recovered quickly from the gaffe—"… in the, er, cold weather. Oh—and here's a biscuit for you."

When Foyle returned, he found his wife extremely chipper and apparently well cared-for, which softened him up a tad after his hard-nosed altercation with Starkey—his second to-date. The first, and worst, had been the week before Christmas, and he hadn't finished with Starkey yet. Foyle was not about to tolerate disloyalty from subordinates, irrespective of the influential connections they might have.

He hauled himself away from stressful thoughts. "Ready then, Sam?"

"Swimming in tea, actually," she beamed, sliding the novel into her shoulder-bag. "Hold on. I must just thank the lads."

Thank? The lads? Incredulous, Foyle watched his wife assemble her belongings, then stood aside to let her pass. As he watched Sam bounce up to the front desk, his face was set in stony silence and his teeth sought out a chunk of inside cheek.

"Holly!" Sam called brightly, lifting one foot off the ground to lean over the desk. "I'm going now. See you next time. Thanks for tea, and things."

Holly? Foyle winced, then blinked, unwilling to accept this evidence of camaraderie. His own session with Starkey had been the very devil. Not that Sam was party to the reason why he was displeased with anyone at Eastbourne—he'd kept his own counsel on the substance of the Parkins confrontation—but this development showed all the signs of undermining his tough stance with Starkey's lot.

Hollyoak appeared from the back office, with a lively smile. "You're welcome, Mrs Foyle. Drive carefully, now." The smile was wiped right off his face when he spotted the DCS. He drew himself up smartly. "Sir!"

Foyle appraised the young man coolly. His wife's unvexed—happy, even—demeanour, plus the evidence that she had been treated with courtesy and kindness, allowed him to grant the constable a curt, unsmiling nod before they left the station.

Temple, having observed the scene, concluded that it wasn't much, but certainly an improvement on the manner of the DCS's earlier greeting. He rested a hand on Holly's shoulder.

"Well, lad—looks as if a little sugar goes a long way. Long way further than a bucketful of bile."

Holly considered his sergeant's words. "I wasn't buttering her up, Sarge. I wanted her to have it."

Temple squeezed his shoulder. "Yeah. Who wouldn't? Easy to see what happened there." He nodded towards the departing Wolseley.

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

More Author's Notes:

Hector the Hound again. Actually, although dogs were commonly used by the armed forces as early as The Great War, the idea of police dogs didn't really take off until after World War II. But Superintendent Reid had one of his bouncy new ideas, so who was I to argue? He's like a little boy when he gets inventive.

Back on the subject of erasing All Things German after The Great War, this problem of German associations was one that even the British Royal Family had to contend with, being thoroughly and undeniably Teutonic in its origins. In 1917 George V decided to "lose" the royal dynastic name, 'Saxe Coburg and Gotha', and stylehis family 'The House of Windsor'. At the same time, English nobility of the Battenberg linerendered their family name into its anglicised form, Mountbatten—late of Lord Louis, and, adoptively, of Prince Phillip, consort of our current queen. These days, to your average Brit, Battenberg is just a type of cake.

Anyway, I digress from the doggy angle: 'German Shepherd' became 'Alsatian Wolf Dog', after Alsace on the Franco-German border. Presumably, they reasoned that, provided the dog at least had its front paws in France, it couldn't be thought bad. Eventually the name was contracted to 'Alsatian' because people felt nervous about owning wolves. *Hello! All dogs—common ancestor!* The new name stuck until the UK joined The Common Market in the Seventies, by which time we were bosom friends with our German cousins again, and the breed-name of German Shepherd was rehabilitated amongst British kennel clubs. So, there ya go. Political correctness. It wasn't just the dogs that were barking.

I notice nobody felt it necessary to rename German measles. Funny, that.

…

More soon.

GiuC