L'Aimant – Chapter 39

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 39: Ménage à trois at 31 Steep Lane. Sam does her bit outside the home.

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:

The Anderson Shelter was a style of domestic outdoor air-raid shelter—a dome of corrugated steel, sunk several feet into the ground, and covered in earth and/or sandbags, most households had them in their back gardens. They were issued in kit-form, so people were responsible for their own erections. Neighbours would help one another.

*wags finger* Stop it. I can hear you.

...

Radclyffe Hall's The Well of Loneliness (1928) was the first novel with a lesbian theme to be published in English. Though it held no more than the mildest reference to intimacy (it would pass as a K+/T- on this site!), it was banned in Britain for two decades. Winston Churchill was among those who worked to get the book suppressed. It was eventually republished in 1949—interestingly, ten years earlier than the lifting of the ban on Lady Chatterley's Lover. Any copies circulating in wartime would've been 'under the counter' jobs.

If you fancy learning a bit more about the chequered history of The Well of Loneliness, google 'Lesbian novel was danger to nation', which will take you to David Smith's article in The Guardian.

I had a quick browse through the alphabetical list of 'books banned by governments' on Wikipedia, and second up was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Third up was All Quiet on the Western Front. Curious to find out where, when and why? Wikipedia has the answers.

…

dancesabove is excused boots this week, as she has homework to do. But I miss her.

Previously, in "L'Aimant"

He took a deep breath. "So you've been sent to drive me, have you?"

"Yes, Sir," an involuntary shiver took her. "Yes I have. I know the South Downs well, you see. So I can take you…ooh… anywhere you want to go."

"Oh?" Christopher resumed the warm kissing of her neck and jaw. "And if I wanted to go... here? Sam?"

Sam gulped in mock alarm, "Then I would certainly make sure you got there quickly, by the shortest route, Sir."

"Drive me there? S-sam?"

"Yes, Sir. Get you to your destination with a minimum of bother, and a cheery word along the way."

And so they mapped a short, but gloriously scenic route, against his office wall, and Foyle discovered once again, if he had ever doubted for an instant, that going anywhere without Samantha was beyond both his imagination and his capability.

Afterwards, he lowered her gently to the floor, and leant in to take her lips one final time in a slow, leisurely caress. "You drive me to distraction," he whispered. "Job's yours, Miss Stewart... if you still want it. Think we'll get on... admirably, Sam."

"I hate to disappoint you, Mr Foyle," Sam hugged him tenderly, "but I can't take the job. You see, I fell in love with my boss... and he married me."

"Your boss sounds the most sensible man on earth," Foyle grinned, "and he's so happy to be home for good, that tonight," he told her proudly, "he's taking you and Georgie out to dinner at The Royal Victoria Hotel."

Chapter 39

Sunday, 28th January, 1945

'The thin end of the wedge.' One of those ominous phrases, like 'the slippery slope', or 'the tip of the iceberg'. Foyle couldn't quite pin down the moment when he should have... hmm—another good phrase—'nipped it in the bud'. But the prickle at the back of his neck told him that perhaps it was already too late. Although he hoped it wasn't.

Perhaps it had been the peck of greeting to her cheek; or the 'You-can-call-me-Christopher-when-we're-off-duty'; or the sitting alongside her in the back seat of the Lanchester; perhaps... it had been when he offered her his other arm as they walked into dinner at The Royal V (that had, he ruefully admitted now, turned a few heads, and drawn an odd remark from Alan Spurlock, Hugh's solicitor, who'd happened to be propping up the bar—"Starting up a sandwich business, Foyle?" he'd smirked, when Christopher had wandered up to buy the ladies an apéritif. "I like your choice of bread, old man." "Get stuffed, Alan," Foyle dismissed him out of the corner of his mouth, and raised a finger to attract the barman, adding, though he knew he owed the man no explanation, "She's Andrew's fiancée." "Oh?" Spurlock took a puff on his cigar, the smarmy bastard, then turned, and leered across the Piano Bar to where the ladies sat, "which one of those two beauties would that be, then?").

Yes, the thin end of the wedge would have been Friday; it was hard to say precisely when. There were so many possibilities to choose from.

Saturday had not particularly worsened things; although Foyle did detect Georgina watching Sam's affectionate behaviour toward him, and he tried to keep as neutral a demeanour as he could under the pats, and strokes and pecks that were Sam's natural way around him. He maintained a gruff enough exterior, pretending to ignore the tiny gestures of affection—he developed a harrumphing mannerism when Sam grew too tender—but always Georgie's interested gaze seemed fixed upon them. Like an adolescent, building up a library of learnt behaviours.

Then, this morning, came the final straw. He'd risen early, out of usage—Sunday being his normal fishing day. The January weather was too cold for fishing, but old habits died hard.

Not wishing to disturb Samantha, he had settled himself at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and yesterday's copy of The Times. More than an hour of peace ensued before he heard the telltale noises of ablutions and soft voices, as the ladies upstairs swapped 'Good mornings' on the landing. Then came the sound of footfalls—two sets—on the stairs. They'd clearly waited for each other to descend. (Now that was something that he couldn't understand about young women. He'd seen it with the secretaries at the War Department. Damned if they didn't go everywhere that wasn't strictly business in pairs. Not that he made a practice of observing such things normally, but he'd actually seen them visiting the lavatory together). Foyle shrugged his brows in affable bewilderment, returning his attention to the paper as he sipped his second cup of tea.

"Morning Darling!" Sam breezed in and bent to plant a firm kiss in the middle of his bald spot as she passed him.

"Hrumph." The side of Foyle's lip furthest from the doorway curled up in a show of pleasure, and his furthest-from-the-doorway eyebrow rose the merest fraction; he wasn't going to betray himself in any way that constituted food for Georgie's arsenal of observations. Sam's hand trailed feather-light along the shoulders of his knitted waistcoat as she made across the kitchen towards the bread-bin.

His interest, by now, had wandered to an article entitled 'Scandalous Abuse of Power'. He took another mouthful from his teacup.

"Morning Christopher!" A second smacker landed squarely on Foyle's pate, instantly inducing a paroxysm of choking that sprayed hot tea in every possible direction apart from down his throat.

Sam looked round, startled. "Oh good Lord!" she cried, and swiftly grabbed a tea-towel, rushing over to dab both her husband and the table dry. "Did that go down the wrong way, Darling?"

Foyle had risen from his seat so quickly that the kitchen chair upended, tumbling backwards with a clatter to the floor.

"Gosh!" said Georgie, large-eyed. "Sorry if I caught you unawares!" Picking up the dishcloth from the draining board, she began to mop the table helpfully.

Eyes watering, Foyle thumped a hand against his chest and coughed. "Just... ahuk!... need to...ahuk!" he pointed upstairs, indicating an intention toward the bathroom and quit the room with Sam in tow.

"I'll clear up here," Georgie called after them brightly.

Sam saw from the expression on her husband's face between the coughing, that he wasn't pleased. But as her back had been turned in the kitchen, she had no real idea why until she'd followed him upstairs.

"What in blazes...?" he complained to Sam, who'd prudently closed the bathroom door to give them privacy.

"Did you see what she did?" he hissed to her, their eyes meeting via their reflections in the bathroom mirror.

"What did she do?" Sam gaped, uncomprehending.

"She kissed me on the head, for Christ's sake. Sam!"

Sam shrugged. "Well would you rather that she kissed you on the lips?"

Now it was Christopher's turn at incomprehension. He scrunched his nose in disbelief. "What? Sam! I don't want her to kiss me anywhere. I'm supposed to be her boss."

"Oh honestly." Sam rolled her eyes. "Don't be so stuffy, Christopher. At home, you're Andrew's father. And she's Andrew's fiancée."

"Yes, except..." Foyle gave her an exasperated look, "he's not here, is he? No fault of his own, I know, butttt..." he grimaced, "I get the funny feeling she's... adopting me..." he grasped for the expression, "expecting me—that's it!—expecting me to take up the slack!"

He poked at his reflection with his finger for emphasis, and sent Sam a pleading look.

Sam gazed back at him with a mix of pity and amusement. "Well, precisely, Christopher. You're her flesh-and-blood connection to your son.

"In any case," she grinned, enjoying his discomfiture, "Face up to it, you silly man. You're irresistible."

Foyle's face declined into dismay.

"And you'd better wipe that look right off your face," Sam warned, "because if Georgie sees it, she'll be very hurt. She liked you even before she started liking Andrew."

She waited for her husband's face to calm, and when it didn't happen fast enough, she said impatiently, "Well don't look so surprised, Christopher. So did I."

Foyle launched into a litany of pathos: "It won't do, Sam. She has to drive me. For my job. If I'd known all this..."

"If I were you," said Sam, and grasped his head between her hands, angling it so that he had a clear view of his scalp reflected in the mirror, "I shouldn't be too married to my dignity with two sets of bright red Tangee lipstick imprints on my head,"

...

"...and so, you see, I do my training tomorrow, and start on Tuesday," chattered Sam over lunch. "Half past eight at night till half-past seven in the morning. We keep watch in the tower of the Hastings Public Library, in pairs, and look out for incendiaries."

Foyle scratched his temple. "Sam, I know you want to do your bit, but I don't think you'll see too many fire-bombs being dropped on Hastings now..."

Sam sensed the prickle of a mild objection in his words, but her inclination was to shrug it off. "Then let's hope our luck lasts. All the same, though, people who've been fire-watching all through the war would like a break. And it's only two nights a week. It's something I can easily do, and it takes the load off others."

There was something more uneasy now, thought Sam, about the way her husband shifted in his seat.

"My sister-in-law's done fire-watching," offered Georgie bouncily. "Whatever you do, don't turn up for training in your decent clothes. You get black as soot, and come out smelling like a cross between a kipper and a bonfire. Hah!"

"Oh, I've been warned," Sam nodded, keeping one eye carefully on her husband now, "which is why I'm going in my MTC mechanic's overalls. Just right for crawling on your hands and knees, through smoke-filled sheds."

And then it came. As if on cue, to vindicate her instincts: "D'you think you should be doing that in your condition, Sam?" Foyle's tone was one Sam recognised as disapproval of an idiocy. "Mmmight want to reconsider, in the circumstances."

She bridled. "Should I stay in bed and pull the curtains too?"

"Not quite the point." His quiet delivery was measured, patient—all the more infuriating to Sam for that.

"Oh, isn't it?" Sam glared at him through slitted eyelids.

Georgie's gaze wandered between them. Christopher... to Sam... to Christopher... to Sam. Like a leisurely tennis match where the opponents hadn't quite cranked up the pace to open slaughter. She wondered how the matter would resolve itself. It was quite interesting, actually. Because they both had points.

She sat up straight and looked expectantly at Christopher. It was his turn. This felt like being at the pictures now. She almost wished she had a box of chocolates on her lap. Mmm. Box of chocolates, she pined. Anyway, they surely wouldn't have a proper disagreement over this...

In the event, it was Sam who forged ahead and seized the advantage. "I'm not about to reconsider, Christopher. I want to do this," she continued. "And," she added meaningfully, "I'm going to cycle there. My bicycle is mended."

Georgie turned to Christopher. Sam's bike was mended. That was good news, wasn't it? Christopher would be pleased?

He didn't look pleased though. Instead, he cleared his throat "Harrumph!" and rose. "Just as you wish," he said quietly, and it wasn't a comforting variety of quiet.

Georgie began to think she might have missed a nuance in the conversation. As she looked up at him, Christopher sent her a short, tight smile. And then he swivelled on his toe and walked out of the kitchen.

Oh dear. She turned to Sam. Sam should be happy though. Sam had got her way. Christopher had said "Just as you wish."

Georgie smiled at Sam encouragingly, nodding. "All settled then?"

Sam's lip twitched. Sam looked peaky. Sam got up and cleared the table in a heavy silence.

Georgie helped her. "Do you go to church on Sundays here?" she chipped in brightly, hoping it would stimulate a bit of conversation. "It doesn't bother me either way, so I hope it wasn't that you didn't go this morning just because of me..."

Sam answered softly, "Christopher goes in the evenings if he goes. The mornings are for fishing... when it's fishing weather."

Turning on the taps, Sam watched in silence as the sink filled, then she lowered the stack of dishes into the water. "We can go this evening if you like."

"Christopher too?" Georgie asked hopefully, eager to mend fences.

Sam took a deep breath, then exhaled. "I should imagine... yes."

Georgie slipped a hand around Sam's waist and squeezed. "Oh good! You know, I'd love to hear him sing."

...

The blackout curtains of Miss Gilding's Steep Lane cottage twitched.

Vicarious living had become her habit and her forte. Having lost her own beau to a dum-dum bullet in the Transvaal, just a year before the Old Queen died, she had never found another outlet for her passions, and had settled to a life that fed on other people's happiness and mishaps, and revolved around her cat.

This evening, as she peered across the road toward Number 31, her interest was piqued to see the front door open, and a shaft of light escape—for shame, now, Mr Foyle! And you a policeman!—a shaft of light escape across the pavement.

A woman's voice called sharply "Georgie! Turn the light out!".

Now, that would be the new young Mrs Foyle, she told herself. Samantha. Such a nice young lady. 'Georgie' though? Was there a young boy staying with them? A younger relative, or refugee perhaps? Miss Gilding squinted through the darkness. Then the deeper voice of Mr Foyle: "I'll get the light." And out stepped—ooh! Another nice young lady. Dark-haired. Pretty.

Down the steps she came and lingered on the pavement waiting for the others, pulling on her gloves. Then Mrs Foyle came out to join her.

At last, the light went out, and Mr Foyle locked up and joined the ladies.

The dark young woman latched herself onto his arm, but Mrs Foyle walked on ahead of them across the road toward the church.

Miss Gilding speculated, with a hint of mischief, whether her quiet policeman neighbour might not have found himself a second young wife, as companion to the first. She hoped Samantha wasn't too annoyed with him. She'd looked a bit subdued.

"We watched him working in our little garden, Puss-Puss, didn't we?" Miss Gilding's fingertips scratched gently at her tabby-cat's soft fur. "Oh yes we did! He dug a big hole for our Anderson shelter."

She and Puss had very much enjoyed their neighbour's vigorous labours in the garden several summers back. They'd watched him as he grappled with that eyesore of a corrugated steel thing—very good for growing marrows in the summer but awfully dank and smelly in a raid, hmm? Puss? She'd brought the gentleman a jug of lemonade out on a tray, and an old towel to mop his brow; and later she had found Puss curled up on the damp material, purring.

Miss Gilding craned her neck to track the little party as it crossed the road, and wondered wistfully: inside that cavernous house of his, could Mr Foyle keep two young women happy? She lifted Puss-Puss from the windowsill, returning to her reading-chair.

"Let's see if that punk Rocco gets wiped out," she said, and, hooking on her spectacles resumed No Orchids for Miss Blandish. Chapter 5:

'Miss Blandish leaned against the wall, biting her knuckles...'

...

Foyle trailed back from church behind the arm-in-arm Samantha and Georgina. It had not been what he'd call a happy day. A lot of tight-lipped brush-offs from Samantha after lunch, whenever Georgie wasn't there to see. He'd spent most of the afternoon, while there was daylight, clearing out the shed, noting with a pang of sadness Samantha's bicycle carefully covered with a tarpaulin.

Then, when the light failed, he'd come indoors and Sam had pushed a cup of tea across the table at him, calling Georgie down into the kitchen so they couldn't be alone.

They'd dressed for church at six, and left at quarter-past. In church, heads turned in pews to have a good look at Georgina now the novelty of Sam had worn off. Sam hadn't looked at him at all, apart from once, when he was saying good night to the vicar.

But Georgie had enjoyed herself. Her eyes lit up and he could feel her bobbing next to him excitedly when the organist struck up a rousing introduction to 'For All the Saints'.

"Ooh, Christopher, I love this one," she whispered up into his tilted ear, and Foyle couldn't help but fold his lips between his teeth to stop a smile. She sang with gusto, beaming through the alleluias, and leant forward round the front of him to grin at Sam, who smiled back cheerily enough, though Foyle saw that her face fell when Georgina straightened up again. He tried a guiding hand beneath Sam's elbow as they filed out of the pew, but though she didn't shake him off, she stiffened, so he dropped his hand back to his side again.

Behind the women now, Foyle settled his hat on his head and dug his hands into his pockets, looking tiredly at his feet as he picked his way across the flagstones of the churchyard.

He stood aside at the front door to let the ladies pass, then quietly followed them indoor. "Georgie," he said kindly, "if you want to telephone your parents, don't feel that you need to ask permission."

It was not a ploy, entirely, but it put her in the hallway for a spell, and gave him some chance of an opening with Sam. He closed the sitting room door behind them.

"I need to go out there in a minute," Sam told him coolly, pulling off her gloves, "to hang my hat and coat up, so you might as well just open it again."

Foyle placed himself before the door and took a fortifying breath. "You expect me to ignore the way I feel about you taking needless risks?" He kept his voice low, mindful of their guest.

Sam sighed and reached around him for the doorknob. "I will not be shut in. Let me by," she warned.

He took her gently by the waist and walked her backwards to the centre of the room, while Sam deliberately looked everywhere but at him.

"Why," he whispered sharply, "can't you just content yourself with helping Alice? Smoke-filled bloody sheds on hands and knees, and out in freezing weather overnight? You couldn't just be happy phoning round and placing refugees?"

Sam hadn't meant to get drawn into bargaining, but found herself manoeuvred, not just physically, but by his pleading tone and soulful look. She rolled her eyes, and, looking up, addressed the ceiling.

"One shed, Christopher. One measly afternoon of training." At last, her eyes spared him a glance, but as they did, they flashed. "Hands and knees are not a problem. I am reasonably supple as you well know. As you well know," she repeated, pointedly. "Flexible and supple."

He closed his eyes in irritation at her meaning. "Not a fair comparison, I think."

"Oh. Isn't it?" she shot back angrily. "I think it is. If I'm too fragile for the one thing, I'm too fragile for the other." Her tone was one of challenge, and said 'chew on that'.

Foyle did so, on his inside cheek, his breathing shallow with annoyance.

"Absolutely fine," he let his hands drop from her waist and stepped away from her, subdued, eyes fixed now on the floor. "If that's the price of making you see sense, so be it."

Not quite the reaction Sam had hoped for. Her argument had worked too well, and victory now turned to ashes in her mouth. She swallowed. After she had watched him for a moment, and he didn't move, she reached across and gently took his hand. Eyes fixed upon his fingers, she began the bargaining again.

"It's a short ride to the library. And it's starting to get lighter in the mornings now. I'm indoors when I'm watching, Christopher. Not outdoors, wandering the streets. You have got to stop this fretful disapproval. Do you understand?"

"I understand I care about your safety and your health." He gnawed away at himself. "Beginning to think I should've kept you with me longer. Least I could keep an eye on you."

Sam's brows contracted in disbelief. "Christopher! You argued quite the opposite before! I was distracting you... The job put me in harm's way..." She cast around herself in frustration. "Pity's sake! Make up your mind! I can't spend the next six months in purdah!"

Foyle focussed on his shoes and tried to chase away the turmoil of emotions: shame; confusion; fear of loss; so much at stake. He drew Sam to him then, and wrapped his arms around her, whispering sharply into her hair "I love you so much, Sam, it frightens me."

"I know," she said, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. "It's such a big adjustment for us both."

A measured moment later, Georgie tapped and stuck her head around the door grinning brightly. "Everything all right now? Shall I make a cup of tea?"

...

Christopher had been saving up a small surprise with which to delight the ladies.

The painting of Samantha, and the sketch, had both remained unopened and, more to the point, resolutely undiscussed in spite of Georgie's craning neck as Anselm had transferred across from the Lanchester on Friday afternoon.

On arriving home, and unbeknown to Sam, Foyle had stashed them surreptitiously, away from prying eyes, on the top floor of the house. The sketch of Georgie, he decided, he would show to Andrew first, as soon as he came home. But the painting was for sharing now. And so he fetched it down into the sitting room, and held it up before them with a flourish.

Georgie waved her hands in excitement and Sam's fingers flew up to her cheeks.

"I never expected so much detail," she marvelled. "Dame Laura said a watercolour sketch. But this... It's beautiful! Where shall we put it?"

"You shouldn't hang a watercolour in direct sunlight," advised Georgie gravely. "The colours fade."

"Yes, you're quite right," agreed Foyle. "That's why the ones of Rosalind's are hanging in the hall. I think... in that case... might be best to hang it in the dining room, on an inward-facing wall."

"I'll get a hammer, shall I?" offered Georgie. "Just tell me where you keep your tools. I'm good at hanging pictures."

...

"Darling..." Christopher began later as they lay in bed, "I'll help of course, but... would you...?"

Sam snuggled in and kissed his jaw. "Would I what?"

"Um, well, the top floor could be made quite habitable. Georgie could move up there to sleep. Then, we could, um... Andrew's room's so close... we could have this floor to ourselves."

"All right," Sam closed her eyes and stroked his arm. "I'll see about it in the week."

"Thank you. And the, um, large hole in the dining room wall," continued Foyle carefully. "D'you think that you could get a man in to re-plaster that as well?"

Wednesday morning, 31st January, 1945

"Well!" giggled Sam, joining Christopher at the breakfast table fresh from her first stint of fire-watching, "didn't quite expect that. Bit of an eye-opener!"

Foyle stood up, relieved to see her, and embraced her gratefully. "Glad you're home safe, my love. All went off smoothly, though, didn't it? No incendiaries?" His smile was confident. The enquiry just for show. Of course there hadn't been.

"Oh yes, all fine. It's just... my fire-watching partner," Sam sat down and poured herself a cup of tea, "Miss Chance—you know, she manages Sayers milliner's on George Street—she's, um, very uninhibited." Sam stretched her eyes at Christopher and grinned. "We never did such things in dormitories at my school."

Foyle's jaw tensed. "What things?"

Sam smirked and raised her eyebrows archly as she poured a cup of tea.

He said, "Come on then. Don't make me play Twenty Questions."

"Well," she went on, "they give you bunks to lie on in the ante-room, so you've got somewhere comfortable when it's not your turn on watch. Miss Chance stripped off completely to climb into hers, Christopher. Not. a. stitch. on. I didn't even take my shoes off, let alone my underthings. You'd think that in a freezing tower she'd be cold doing that, wouldn't you?"

Foyle exhaled through pursed lips. "'Magine so," he shrugged, and returned to his perusal of the morning paper. For pity's sake. If that was all it was...

"Perhaps she thinks that I'm a prude," mused Sam, cup cradled in both hands, "but I wasn't going to undress. No inclination to in temperatures like those. Miss Chance walked around totally starkers before climbing in her bunk." Sam took a drink. "But she was very friendly though. Annnd... oh! She lent me this..."

She reached into her bag and drew out a slim black-covered hardback volume.

"The Well of Loneliness'" she announced with an important flourish, "by Radclyffe Hall. A funny name," she frowned. "Sounds like a public building. Is it a man or a woman, do you know?"

The title hadn't really registered with Foyle at first, but the author's name... the name issued an alert-response that penetrated his concentration. He looked up sharply from his reading. "Um. Say again?"

"Rad-clyffe Hall," enunciated Sam precisely. "Male or female?"

Foyle cleared his throat. "Er. Rrright. Opinions vary. Who d'you say lent you the book?"

Sam frowned, annoyed. She knew he hadn't been paying full attention. "Miss Chance, my fire-watching partner," she repeated.

"May I see it?"

"Mmh. 'Course." Sam handed him the book.

Foyle knew Miss Chance by sight—tipped his hat to her whenever he passed the shop, but that was clearly where his knowledge of her ended.

"Been through a few hands, I see," he remarked, more than a little curious to know whose, beside Miss Chance's. He thumbed through the damp-stained pages quickly. This copy had long since lost the paper jacket he remembered from his first encounter with the novel.

"Well, anyway, I reckon it was rather nice of her," said Sam. "I had a quick look through. Apparently it's all about a lady ambulance driver in The Great War. Right up my street, I should imagine."

Foyle winced. "Mmmight not be quite the street that you're expecting." He handed the book back to Sam, and scratched his nose, "When are you next on watch?"

"Next Tuesday. Only doing one night this week. They're breaking me in slowly."

"Rrright. If I were you, I'd, ah, read the book before next Tuesday. Just to be... prepared for any discussions that arise."

Sam puzzled over that. "Have you read it, then?"

Foyle rocked his head and pulled a face. "Mwell, bits, you know... Copy landed on my desk when it was first... shortly after it was published."

"Oh. Fancy that," said Sam. "Small world."

He frowned then, and engrossed himself in the back page of the newspaper, which Sam also knew to be the sport.

"I didn't know you liked sport, Christopher?" she rose, and peered suspiciously onto the page that he was reading.

"Oh?" an innocent expression settled on his face again. "Nuh well," he pouted, "Football League South, y' know. Bit of a challenge cobbling teams together in wartime, but, um, like to keep an eye on the results. Important for morale and all."

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

More Author's Notes:

"Oh good! You know, I'd love to hear him sing."

If you're interested, you really can hear him sing, albeit briefly, in Part 1 of the audio book of Graham Greene's The Heart of the Matter. And very nice too, Mr K.

He also treats us to a verse of Daisy, Daisy in the 2005 drama Falling.

...

For all the Saints
by William Walsham How

(Selected verses)

Georgie, Foyle and Sam sing this hymn to the Ralph Vaughan Williams tune Sine Nomine (which means 'without a name'!).

For all the saints, who from their labours rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress and their Might;
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well fought fight;
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor's crown of gold.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

...

No Orchids for Miss Blandish is a 1939 crime novel by James Hadley Chase, about the kidnapping of an heiress. In its day, it was notorious for the levels of sex and violence it contained.

However, in contrast to The Well of Loneliness, it wasn't banned.

...

Miss Chance – another anecdote, tweaked from my mother's wartime past.

…

More soon.

GiuC