L'Aimant – Chapter 28
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 28: Family news has mixed resonances for Foyle. Sam and Georgie catch up. Charles Howard has propositions for Foyle and Sam.
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:
Ultra was the blanket name used by the Allies to refer to crucially important wartime signals intelligence, obtained by breaking encrypted enemy communications. In the case of British Military Intelligence, this work was done by the Government Code and Cypher School (GC&CS) based at BletchleyPark.
Churchill credited Ultra with providing the edge that enabled the Allies to win the war.
…
dancesabove improved this as only she knows how. Then I had to go and interfere with it again. So any idiocies are mine.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Sam ... sent him a shy grin. "If you're getting in with me, we can have another five inches of water in this bath."
Foyle lifted one eyebrow. "Am I getting in with you?"
"You could help me with this." Sam reached for the jar of soap solution sitting in the corner by the taps. "Lux Flakes. Dissolved in rainwater. Will you do the honours?" She undid the georgette scarf, letting her hair tumble round her shoulders.
Foyle licked his lips unconsciously. "It'll be my pleasure. Give me a moment to get out of these..." He left the bathroom to the sound of running water and changed swiftly into his dressing gown, nearly tripping over himself in the rush to shed his underpants and socks.
As he crossed the landing back towards Samantha, Siren of the Bathtub, Foyle made a mental note to remove the bucket from the station kitchen and hide it in the gents' next chance he had. Totally absurd? He didn't think so.
A few moments later, the sound of splashing and delighted feminine giggles echoed across the landing, accompanied by the floating strains of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" rendered in a passable baritone—on pitch, if not great in range.
Chapter 28
Saturday evening, 6th January 1945
"Very pleased for you both... When do you intend on...? Next leave you get?" Foyle's mouth twitched sceptically as he spoke into the phone. "About as much chance of your getting leave as Goering getting thin, wouldn't you say?... I rather thought so. Georgina with you now?... Put her on. Be nice to have a word... Oh you can bank on it... Well, tell her yourself, why don't you? One moment and I'll"—Foyle reached his long-arm-of-the-law around into the living room where Sam stood eavesdropping, and yanked her out into the hall beside him—"find her for you."
And now she hung on to her husband's elbow, grinning happily at all she'd overheard. "Georgie said yes!" she whispered eagerly—and ever-so-slightly superfluously—bobbing up and down against his side, impatient to participate.
Settling down at last, Sam pressed her ear to the back of the receiver Christopher now held between them.
His battle to retain possession of the phone, however, was lost the very moment Georgie's voice came on the line. He barely had the time to wish his future daughter-in-law happiness when Sam commandeered both the receiver and the conversation.
Christopher slid his hands into his pockets and withdrew to lean against the newel post at the foot of the staircase. Ankles crossed, he surveyed the scene indulgently from under hooded lids, the twist of a faint smile warming his lips.
Against the background of Sam's animated chatter, Foyle profited from the moment to review the rate at which his family was growing. Only two months before, it had been just him and Andrew, with Charles and Alice in reserve (he could hardly count his sister Jean, who'd emigrated to Australia in '31). But then along came Sam, and with her she brought Geraldine and Iain, plus the promise of two babies in late summer. Now Andrew planned to add Georgina to the mix—not to mention what additions might rapidly come out of that—please God not too rapidly; otherwise the house will turn into a kindergarten.
Foyle sketched accommodation plans for when his son eventually tied the knot. Did he really want a newly married Andrew and his bride sleeping just across the corridor from him and Sam whenever they came to stay? Even less appropriate, if they were to set up temporary home at Steep Lane. He supposed he'd have to open up the extra storey underneath the attic. Turn it into a semi-self-contained flat, perhaps? The whole third floor had languished unattended for what felt like an age. That said, it was by no means empty—it had served for years as storage space for some lovely, if unwieldy, bits of furniture Rosalind had inherited from her parents.
Optimistic practicalities swirled through Foyle's mind as he planned for Andrew and his new wife, but as his attention drifted back to the conversation going on beside him, sad reality reasserted itself. His son was not about to set up home. His son was off to war again.
"... I know." Sam's cheery tone to Georgie grew more serious. "But any time, if you feel fretful and don't want your parents worrying, we hope you'll come and visit us while Andrew's away..." She turned to Christopher, stretching her eyes to ask for his endorsement, and he blinked his quiet assent. "Georgie," she added reassuringly, "bear in mind all the experience Andrew's had. He's such an old hand at this now."
Sam's eyes were still upon her husband as she spoke. She saw the sadness grow beneath his gaze, and knew then it was time to draw the conversation to a close.
"Dear heart, do put Andrew back on," she told her young friend kindly. "I think that Christopher needs to say cheerio to his son now." Then she held out the receiver to her husband, watching tenderly as he hauled his hands out of his pockets and stepped up to the phone.
Later that evening, she found him standing quietly in Andrew's bedroom, illuminated by the bedside lamp, his fingers resting lightly on the Lloyd Loom cabinet beside his son's bed.
She trailed her fingers down the satin back of his waistcoat and pressed him gently. "What?"
"Nothing," he began, without too much conviction, then blinked in irritation at himself, and gave a nod towards the cabinet. "Um... Rosalind's engagement ring is gone from Andrew's drawer."
Sam leaned around and scrutinised his face. "Well, that's good, isn't it? You gave it to him, surely? So that he could use it when he found someone? And he just has. Got engaged, I mean. So..."
"Yup. He's had it since before he went to Oxford."
Sam frowned. The nature of the problem still eluded her. "Christopher, explain to me a little, so that I can help?"
Foyle's hand crept to his brow in an attempt to organise his feelings. "Aaafter he joined up," he began hesitantly, recalling all the times he'd sat on Andrew's bed, and taken the ring from its box, "I used to wonder if he'd ever... My fear was that he'd never... But now..."
The truth of it was, that evening, with congratulations done and dusted, there was nothing left to do but contemplate his son's departure. Somewhere in that mix of emotion, the reality had finally struck home that an engagement might encroach upon his son's priorities. Andrew's luck had held thus far, but what if this event should impact on his vigilance? Just a fleeting moment of distraction was all it took.
And now the ring was gone, the deed was done.
Sam stepped in. "You thought he wouldn't... manage to pass it on? But now," she finished for him, "he's found his happiness... and you're afraid, aren't you... that it might make him lose his edge?"
Silence.
"The same way Imake you lose your edge when you're working?" she pressed. "Because I do now, don't I, Christopher? Unsettle things?"
Christopher's face glowed in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He pinned his lips between his teeth, and closed his eyes.
"Come to bed." Sam tugged his forearm, drawing him gently away. "I might unsettle you at work, but I can settle you at home."
Mutely, he followed her into the bedroom, where she drew him down beside her on the mattress, and turned onto her side to gaze into his face.
Slowly, tenderly, Sam kissed her way round every wrinkle, line and crevice of his troubled features, ghosting across the dull needles of the beard-growth shadowing his lower cheeks and jaw. She brought her mouth to rest at last upon the soft pads of his lips, and teased at them a while.
"I can't stand to see you suffer over this," she breathed. "Please let me try to make it better." And then she freed the buttons of her blouse.
"Sam..." he shrank away and shifted awkwardly beside her. In this dark and vulnerable state, where he felt somehow less than himself, remote from human comfort, he turned his head aside, wet-eyed, but Sam would not allow the separation. She brought his chin around and locked her eyes to his. "I won't have you turn from me, Christopher."
His eyelids flickered shut to veil his weariness, and in a hushed voice he entreated, "I'm turning from myself, not you."
"Then rest on me, and let me settle you," she pleaded, gathering him in against her body, and gently cradling his head.
He heaved a sigh and went limp in her arms. The springy curls around his ears and nape curved soft around her fingers as she stroked and soothed him now with every touch. Gently, she brought his head against her breast, pressing him to partake of her sweetness.
Wrapped in the fragrant haven of his wife's embrace, Foyle breathed her flesh and felt a slow stir spread out from his core and saturate his limbs. Sam's lips grazed his forehead, murmuring endearments, and slowly, in the warmth of the cocoon she spun, his dark mood thawed, and troubles faded in the glow of her tenderness.
Sam's hand addressed his clothing now, and freed him from its confines, slipping fingers down and under, cupping upwards with the gentlest of pressure. And she smiled into his hair to feel his tender flesh knit into ridges as he clenched reflexively beneath her feathery but insistent touch.
His breathing quickened then, and she drew back to see his eyes grow large as he lay open-mouthed with one hot cheek against her chest—in momentary astonishment at his own responsiveness, and helplessness beneath her hands.
Sam chuckled in his ear. "You're going to be an easy one to settle," she whispered earnestly. And sure enough, she urged and played him effortlessly to the point of no return, till he lay whimpering against her bosom, clutching at her open blouse.
She brought her hand up to his cheek and felt it wet with tears.
"Oh, Darling, that's it. Let it go," she hummed, and dried him on the fabric of her silk chemise. "Be still, now. Have a little rest, and I'll go down and make us dinner."
"Don't move." He held her fast against him. "Don't want you to move."
So she relaxed back into him, speaking again into his hair. "Christopher... I'm very sorry if I bring you... difficulties—worries."
His grasp around her tightened. "Wouldn't it be nice," he smiled contentedly, "if all my difficulties came in such packages as you, my love?"
Monday, 8th January, 1945
Foyle glanced down at his silver pocket watch. Eight thirty-five, and he had barely hung his coat up when the phone began to ring. He answered and his eyes widened. What did Charles Howard want this early in the day?
Commander Howard's voice was jocular. "What has your son done to my driver, Christopher? I lend her to him for the day on Saturday, and she turns up at Pembury last night sporting a quaintly ethereal glow, most unlike her normal, down-to-earth demeanour. Nearly ended up in bloody Wandsworth 'stead of Whitehall on the way to work this morning. What's he been up to this time? Old Foyle charm's been wreaking havoc, shouldn't wonder."
Foyle raised an eyebrow. Clearly Georgie hadn't so far mustered up the courage to let her boss in on the happy news. "Old Foyle protests his innocence," he countered amiably. "But as regards the charm, then you suppose correctly. Suggest you take the matter up with Young Foyle—if and when you're able to lay hands on him."
Foyle paused. Charles, after all, had contacts in Whitehall. "Um. Are you able, by the way?" It was a shameless play at fishing for some news of his son's posting.
"Doubt it, man. But I can make enquiries." There was a pregnant silence. Charles was after something. "If you happened to be up in Town soon, I could... share any findings with you?"
Foyle caught the nuance. "I—er—see. Aaand I'd happen to be coming up to London because...?"
"Need your help. Can't say more at the moment."
"If I'm signing off a chitty for the fuel to drive to London, you'll have to give me something more substantial, Charles."
Howard cleared his throat. "Just say 'Admiralty business', old chap. Use my name. Come up to Town tomorrow, and I'll lift the seventh veil. On both counts. This... and Andrew."
Foyle's mouth twitched as he mentally reviewed his schedule. "Can't come tomorrow. Wednesday's the earliest. Grateful if you'd try to find out where he's at, though. Meanwhile—tit for tat—it's only fair to warn you: the 'ethereal glow' your driver's sporting is—um—due to her engagement to your nephew. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, she's also sporting Rosalind's engagement ring."
"My word, Christopher. That boy moves like lightning."
"Mmm. Flies a Spit. He'd better, don't you think?"
"Am I such an ogre, that she feels she has to keep this to herself?"
"Doubt it's personal. Shell-shocked, perhaps. About to go through tough times, with him gone in the foreseeable." Foyle's voice betrayed a little of the fragility he himself felt over his son's departure. "I want him home, Charles. Soon as circumstances allow."
He could almost see his brother-in-law's sympathetic nod as Charles answered, "Goes without saying, Christopher. We all do. And I'll see what I can glean about his whereabouts."
"Appreciated, Charles. We'll see you Wednesday. Meanwhile, warm up to the novel idea of becoming 'Uncle Charlie' to your driver."
Wednesday, 10th January, 1945
The Admiralty's bomb-proof citadel, northwest of Horse Guards, was an austere presence in the middle distance as Foyle strolled side-by-side with Commander Howard through St James's Park.
"Seeing a lot of you lately, Charles?" Foyle's lips gave a sardonic twist.
"Well you were kind enough to lend me your brainpower over New Year. I could do with some of that applied to other matters now."
"What 'matters' might those be?"
Charles turned up his collar against the chill. Ten years in Naval Intelligence allowed him to look tentative instead of shifty. "May have come to your notice, Christopher... things have quieted down along the SouthCoast in the last six months. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Mmm. You could say that."
"Just dotting i's and crossing t's..."
Foyle narrowed his eyelids and cocked his head suspiciously, waiting for Howard to get to the point.
"...so you'll have a bit of free time on your hands."
Foyle gave his brother-in-law an old-fashioned look. Charles Howard knew as well as he did that criminal activity didn't stop just because the Axis Forces were on the backfoot.
"Workload's unchanged," he shrugged. "Only difference is I'm dodging fewer bombs to field it. Why don't you just, um, spit it out, Charles? Why am I here?"
Satisfying himself that no one was within earshot, Commander Howard broke his news.
"Unholy stink, Christopher. Giles Messinger's been murdered."
The DCS's lips formed into a pout that promptly curled into a sneer. Sir Giles Messinger. Head of the Secret Intelligence Service. Arrogant, uncompromising despot. Vindictive and vituperative bully. And now, it would appear, dead as a doornail.
Charles eyed Foyle with relaxed interest before pressing on. "Don't need to tell you that responsibility for the investigation's already been brought in-house. It won't be put into the hands of the police."
"Fail to see where I come in, then." Foyle began the signature abuse of his inside cheek, in stubborn resistance to what he knew was coming next.
"We need, not to put too fine a point on it, a police adviser—someone with investigative experience in criminal homicide and knowledge of special ops. I know that you had dealings with Sir Giles over the death of his son, and also with the then-Director of SOE ops, Colonel Wintringham. You had a unique look inside the Hill House operation—gave you an insight into the way things work, it might be said."
Foyle raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Not bringing me in as a character witness, I trust? Sorry—nnot sure I could vouch for anyone's integrity in SOE. Except perhaps for Hilda Pierce."
And even Pierce, he reflected, danced to a tune inaudible to ordinary human ears.
"Yes, isn't she quite the pearl amongst swine?" observed Charles with a smirk.
Foyle addressed Commander Howard now in a tone of exasperation. "Charles, you know perfectly well that Messinger vetoed my appointment to the post with Admiral Sir Percy Noble. Frankly, I'm half-surprised you aren't hauling me in as a suspect."
God knew, he'd felt like murdering the old bastard at the time!
"If you suspect SOE involvement," the detective added irritably, "why aren't you asking Pierce to field this one? There's no love lost between her and Wintringham."
"We are doing precisely that," supplied Charles calmly. "Wintringham's out on his ear, Pierce is in his job. And she has said she wants you in her pocket."
Foyle halted, stared down at his shoes, and pursed his lips.
"Nothing against Miss Pierce's impeccable tailoring, but I don't think I'd enjoy the close association. Last time I paddled in the murky waters of the SOE, Sam got hurt. We damn near came to grief, the pair of us. It's not a risk that I'm prepared to take a second time. Don't need to spell out why."
Howard inclined his head. Alice had apprised him of Sam's condition, and it went against the grain to ask this of his friend. But war was like that. Sacrifices were demanded of so many men with families. "I can quite understand your reluctance, Christopher. Pierce has requested you. So I'm obliged to ask."
Loosening his shoulders, Foyle resumed their stroll. "How exactly does the Admiralty fit into this?"
Commander Howard kept his gait in pace with Foyle's, directing his remarks towards the ground in low tones. "All our crucial enemy intelligence—the Ultra—comes through SIS. The loss of Messinger will not, per se, affect the flow or quality of information, but motive for his killing must be fully established. We must satisfy ourselves that security has not been compromised. I need not tell you, this must go no further. The investigation will remain covert."
Foyle halted once again, fixing Howard with a sharp, incisive look. "And the perpetrator brought to justice?"
Charles's wince was barely noticeable to the untrained eye. "And the perpetrator... identified. Think about it, Christopher. It's all we're asking."
"I wonder if it is, though, Charles." Foyle struck off again along the sandy path. "When was he murdered?"
"Sunday night. I had Pierce purring in my ear the early hours of Monday morning. She seemed to know that we're related."
"Why wouldn't she?" Foyle waved his hand in curt dismissal. "She knows when Hitler sneezes. Well, first of all, the trail is cold. And even if I find your killer, you've as good as told me he'll be taken out of my hands."
Commander Howard's reply was businesslike and unperturbed. "Yes, I expect he will be. It's the way of things."
"Thought so. Nnnot my territory, then." Foyle squinted with annoyance at the memory of Howard Paige, the swaggering Americanbusinessman he'd been prevented from detaining thanks to wartime politics. And Paige had arrogantly mocked his powerlessness in drawling French...
"'C'est la guerre' just doesn't cut it in the context of a murder, 's'far as I'm concerned . Already got one diplomatic travesty of justice to correct when this insanity is over." The detective pursed his lips in obstinate dismissal. "Convey my respects to Miss Pierce, but regrettably, I must decline."
Howard's calm expression never faltered. "I'll pass on your answer, Christopher. But you may find that there'll be other... overtures."
Foyle snorted. "They can please themselves. I'll listen to the overture, but absolutely no intention of sticking round for the full performance."
Howard parked his hands behind his back, concluding that—at least for the time being—the opera was over.
By now the path had brought them to the lakeside, and they halted at the water's edge, gazing out across the lake at the peninsula. Foyle dug into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a sturdy brown paper bag, folded over at the top and twisted at the corners.
"Stale bread," he informed Charles, half apologetically, and weighed the bundle in his hand. "Sam's idea. She planned for us to come and feed the ducks after lunch." He started to undo the bag.
Charles cleared his throat and set off on a different tack. "I have some news of Andrew, Christopher. He's been seconded to 63 Squadron out of North Weald."
Foyle ran his tongue across his teeth and focussed on a group of mallards shovelling for weed. "Thank you. What else can you tell me?"
Howard slid his hands into his pockets, schooling his voice into a newsreader's monotone in an effort not to sound too melodramatically grim. "Awful bloody mess across the Channel, New Year's Day. Luftwaffe launched a full attack on Allied airfields. Flattened them before our planes could get aloft. Aircraft shot to bits and bombed to kingdom come. No warning, so the chaps had no time to get airborne. Four hundred-odd planes lost before the day was out."
Foyle pinned him with a sharp look. "Pilots?"
Charles looked down. "Some dead, yes. Mostly, though, just empty aircraft on the ground. In Ghent alone, eighteen resting Spits were taken out at one location." He lifted his eyes and scanned the water.
A stillness settled over Foyle. "And Andrew?"
"Well, the word I have of Andrew is, he's busy flying out replacement craft to Belgium. The good news is, we downed enough of Goering's One-Oh-Nines to knock the Nazi fighter arm out of the sky. That's all I know. Except that Ultra let us down there badly on intelligence. Very badly."
Charles paused there, eyes sweeping sidelong to assess the impact of his words on his companion. "I'd like to think... the lead-up to the death of Messinger was not in any way connected to the blunder."
Foyle's slow blink spelt a grudging resignation. He glanced in Charles' direction, without making eye-contact. "I see. More information than I wanted. But I thank you for your trouble, nonetheless."
Dipping his hand into the paper bag, Foyle cast a shower of crumbs across the water. The ducks moved in with noisy appreciation, and he watched them, silent for a moment as he came to his decision.
"You can tell Pierce this: There's been an alteration in my personal circumstances, but I'm prepared to give her request consideration... after I've talked things over with my wife."
Foyle held the bread-bag out to his companion. "Here, Charles. Dig in and cast some crumbs on troubled waters."
His next remark was virtually inaudible. "Takes one back to simpler times."
With their respective bosses delivered to Whitehall, Sam and Georgie had been granted a couple of hours off for lunch. Grateful to be meeting up amidst the warmth and appetising smells of The Strand Corner House, they exchanged a fond embrace, then settled down to order their meal.
As they sat waiting for the first course to arrive, Georgie's engagement ring became the natural centre of attention.
"It was his mother's," she explained.
"Mmm. I know," said Sam, tilting Georgie's finger so the diamond caught the light. It sparkled beautifully—a decent-size stone which, on a young policeman's pay, must have set Christopher back a few months' wages easily.
"It's a little large for my finger, so I've wrapped button-thread around the shank till I can have it altered."
"That's a good idea. Where will you take it?" asked Sam.
Georgie shook her head. "I don't know any jewellers in London, yet."
Sam did, though. "I suggest, um... McCarthy's in Artillery Row? It's so delightfully old-fashioned. And you should see the lovely stuff they have. Mostly second-hand, but gorgeous."
"Oh, I never think that 'second-hand' matters, do you?" replied Georgie airily. "How can anyone really own a gemstone? It's a piece of nature!"
Sam had to agree. Second-hand in her book didn't matter, either. Not when it came to rings or men. And nature was a lovely thing.
Georgie frowned down at her finger. "Sam, I'm so happy. And so terribly churned up, all at once."
Distraction tactics were in order. "Tell me what your parents say," invited Sam. "Are they pleased for you?" She lifted Georgie's left hand for a closer look just as the soup arrived, and glanced up at the waitress, who was clearly moved by Georgie's troubled face.
"Buck up, Miss!" the girl offered cheerily. "You look as if you've lost 'alf a crown and found sixpence!" Then her eyes fell on Georgie's clearly-in-the-process-of-being-admired engagement ring and her cheeriness crumbled into sympathy. She patted Georgie's other hand. "Ah. Sorry, Lav. 'E's bin posted, 'asn't 'e? You just carry on lookin' miserable. Everybody understands."
Sam's wide eyes met Georgina's as the waitress walked away, and the pair of them dissolved then into helpless giggles. After a few moments, Georgie's mirth pivoted back into silent tears.
"Poor darling. Eat your soup," cajoled Sam. "Miserable and starving is worse than miserable."
Georgie sniffed her tears back bravely and stirred her bowl. "What sort of soup d'you suppose this is?"
Sam craned her neck to read the menu displayed over the counter. "Vegetable." She rolled her eyes. "Well, isn't that a surprise!"
"Oh, good. Because I think I've caught one." Triumphantly, Georgie fished out a single pea. It bobbed around the middle of her spoon.
"Ooh, leave it in," joked Sam. "There might be another one lurking in there, and if you're lucky, they might breed."
They might breed. Two pairs of startled eyes locked in silent admission of a conversation needing to be had.
Sam dabbed lightly at the sides of her mouth, preserving her precious lipstick, then offered, "Sorry. Me and my loose lips. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."
"Oh, I don't mind." Georgie's eyes were huge but unabashed as she launched into a blow-by-blow account of Andrew's two—no, three—proposals of the previous week.
"I know I've known him very little time, but Andrew's sweet, and his persistence won me over. On Wednesday he was waiting for me opposite the yard when I dropped the car off, and he walked me home. I think he must have been quite tired that night."
"Yes, well, he'd driven up from Hastings in the dark. He wouldn't stay the night with us. Too impatient to see you. Christopher was a bit offended that he left so quickly."
Georgie's dimples deepened. "See? He can be really single-minded, can't he? Anyway, we didn't have much time that evening, as he had to find a place to stay. He ended up at the RAF Club, so he had a decent kip, at least. On Thursday, though, he took me for a meal off Leicester Square, and then proposed in Piccadilly Circus afterwards."
Sam's brows went up. "He might have picked a more secluded spot!"
"That's not the half of it. He climbed on top of Eros when he asked me!"
"I don't see how he... Eros is all boarded up."
"Ohh, that didn't stop him. He took a running jump onto the boards and scrambled up and sat there like a pixie on a toadstool, shouting, 'Marry me, Miss Georgie Rose!'. And I was giggling so much, a bobby came and moved us on."
"But you still said 'no'?"
"Well, not exactly. But I did say to leave off, and that I thought that he was very silly. And after that, he went all quiet."
Sam found herself feeling sorry for Andrew. Throwing himself around London on a desperate mission. But the story wasn't over yet.
"On Friday, Mrs Howard invited us to dine with them in their flat off Whitehall, and Andrew was the picture of decorum. Not at all the madcap idiot he'd been on top of Eros, Thursday night. Then afterwards we strolled up to Trafalgar Square."
"Now, you're not going to tell me he shinned up Nelson's Column and proposed?"
"No… he proposed upstairs on the bus on the way back. But I said, 'Let's have a cup of tea and talk some more.' So I smuggled him up to my room and made him tea till after midnight and he proposed again there on the sofa, half-asleep. And I didn't have the heart to throw him out or put him off, that time. So I said yes, and then we curled up on my bed like spoons, and... honestly, that's all we did."
If Sam looked surprised, Georgie's honesty required that she should leave Samantha in no doubt. "I would have let him, Sam, but he just didn't ask or push. Should I have offered? Will he think I'm cold?"
Sam's estimation of Andrew rose several notches. It seemed that, in a tight spot, he possessed physical self-control of the variety neither she nor Christopher could ever muster in each other's presence. In that moment, Sam came to understand a little more about the calm and focussed qualities essential to a pilot under fire, and how this young girl's influence on him had worked to salvage his ability to be that person. Georgie had effectively become his anchor. It warmed Sam's heart to contemplate the joys that still awaited them as a couple, and she sent up a fervent hope that Andrew would not be too long away.
"I think," said Sam, squeezing Georgie's hand, "that what you're feeling now—the 'churned up' feeling—would have been far worse if you had gone the whole way. Georgie, I believe he's tried to spare you that. He did it out of love. And that's a fine, unselfish gift for him to give you."
Georgie's eyes were brimming as she clasped Sam's hand in return. "I'm so happy that we're going to be family."
Back at the Admiralty Citadel, Foyle and Charles rejoined Samantha in reception. Foyle mumbled, "Need to use the—um—facilities," and wandered off along a corridor signposted 'HEAD'.
Sam beamed up at her husband's host, addressing him half-jokingly in formal terms. "Commander Howard! How jolly nice to see you."
"Sam. How are you?" Charles bent to kiss her cheek. "Christopher not working you too hard, I hope?"
"Actually, Charles… he's under-working me," admitted Sam, with rueful candour. "And I know it's deliberate. We were a team, before. Well, we are now, but somehow he can't relax now that he feels responsible for me and... how I am, you know."
Charles listened with grave interest. This tallied perfectly with Christopher's earlier remarks about his attitude to Sam and risk. "Perhaps, Sam, it might be time to carve yourself another niche?" he supplied helpfully (and not entirely altruistically).
Sam frowned. "I've come to think my presence at work now does more harm than good. Too much of a distraction. He tells me that he'll try to be less protective, Charles—less careful of me—but I honestly don't think he can. The job's not what it was. I'm pretty sad about it, actually. But there you are."
Sliding a hand under Sam's elbow, Commander Howard steered her to a row of chairs as she gamely moved the conversation on to ask how Alice was getting on. During the New Year festivities Sam had enjoyed hearing Mrs Howard's accounts of her work in London, co-ordinating the billeting of refugees from other parts of England and abroad.
Suddenly Charles dipped his head and looked up at Sam with an expression reminiscent of a music hall comedian's "dawning idea". She returned his gaze expectantly, a small bemused smile forming on her lips.
"Sam! How would you feel about lending Alice a hand? You have a telephone in Hastings. You could work from home there. Wouldn't be full time. Perhaps three days a week?"
Sam's face lit up, her voice taking on the slightly higher pitch that typified her when enthused or agitated. "That sounds just the kind of thing I'd be good at! I get on well with people. Could you speak to her, Charles?"
Commander Howard's smile was one of genuine relief. "I'll ask her to telephone you. I'm sure something can be arranged. And quickly." Quicker the better, he thought to himself.
Approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor.
"Christopher! Are we off to feed the ducks?" Sam rose from her chair and beamed at her returning husband
Sheepishly, Christopher produced the empty paper bag from his pocket and cocked an eyebrow at Commander Howard. "Charles and I, um, fed them, I'm afraid. But if you'd care to take a turn with me around the lake, there's something I'm anxious to discuss with you before we drive back home…?"
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
"He supposed he'd have to open up the extra storey underneath the attic. Turn it into a semi-self-contained flat, perhaps."
On a lovely field-trip to Hastings, I discovered that 31 Croft Road—the house which plays the role of 31 Steep Lane in the series—actually has three storeys plus an attic and a basement. It is quite the generous-sized residence (though they never see fit to reveal the true size of the place on film), and would offer plenty of space to house two families in relative privacy. There might be a bit of a queue for the bathroom in rush hour, but hey.
…
"Bloody awful mess across the Channel, New Year's Day."
1st January, 1945—The Allies are caught off-guard by the Luftwaffe's last-ditch attempt at air supremacy, Operation Bodenplatte. German fighter-bombers launch strikes on Allied airfields in Europe. Over 450 Allied aircraft are destroyed on the ground.
At Air Base B61, near Sint Denijs-Westrem in Ghent, nine Spitfires are shot or forced down. Eighteen Spits are destroyed while still sitting on the airfield.
Allied losses are quickly replaced with new aircraft (yay, Andrew!) in the ensuing days and weeks. However, Luftwaffe losses are heavy, and the German fighter arm (Jagdwaffe) is crippled beyond its ability to rebuild itself.
Eat it, Hermann!
...
"About as much chance of your getting leave as Goering getting thin, wouldn't you say?"
Actually, stop eating it, Hermann. I'd like to think the shock of those Luftwaffe losses knocks a few pounds off Goering's girth, and that Andrew will be home on leave soon. o)
…
"I suggest, um... McCarthy's in Artillery Row? It's so delightfully old-fashioned."
An unashamed plug for my favourite London jeweller's. J McCarthy, 11 Artillery Row (off Victoria Street, Westminster). They have a selection to make the eye pop, are indeed 'delightfully old-fashioned'—and would, I am sure, have been equally old-fashioned in Georgie's day. I've spent silly money there and not regretted it.
...
More soon.
GiuC