L'Aimant – Chapter 40
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 40: Sam reads The Book. A heart to heart with Georgie. Foyle has a word or two with Milner. Then he meets Miss Chance.
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:
Does anybody else think that Andrew Foyle was a really awful poet? I do. Read on.
…
dancesabove is back in her ballet shoes, and pirouetted through this chapter providing lovely tweaks and great ideas.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
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."
Chapter 40
Saturday afternoon, 3rd February, 1945
"I suppose you think you're funny."
Sam slapped The Well of Loneliness down hard onto a snoozing Christopher's lap.
"Mmwah?" he jerked up into wakefulness, eyes blinking in alarm.
"I said, I suppose you think you're funny."
Christopher glanced down at the book, then up again at Sam. "Did I make a joke, my love?" His face was all wide-eyed innocence.
"At my expense, yes. Honestly!" she rolled her eyes.
Sam plonked herself un-gently down into his lap, sadistically satisfied to hear his 'oomph!' of protest. She felt entirely safe in doing so: Georgie was ensconced on the top floor, happily engaged in rearranging bits and bobs to make her new, reclaimed-from-clutter room more homely.
"You might have warned me," Sam complained.
"Thought it only reasonable you should make up your own mind," he countered mildly. "Since the book's apparently in circulation in defiance of being banned..."
"Banned?" Sam shot back. "Who on earth has banned it?"
"Um, well, let's see…" he scratched his nose. "It's been a while ago... Mr Baldwin, Mr Churchill, the Sunday Express, Sir William Whatsisname-Hicks..."
"Hicks?" Sam's mind made a swift connection. "No relation to Barbara, I bet. Shouldn't be surprised if she'd read it. Written it, even," she added darkly, "what with her low opinion of men."
"Hardly fair," Foyle frowned down at her and tutted.
Sam's arms knitted petulantly across her chest. "So what am I supposed to say to Ellen on Tuesday night?"
"Oh, Ellen, now, is it?" his lips curled up into a smirk.
"Don't be a wretch, Christopher." She passed an arm about his neck and wriggled in his lap to remind him what variety of wretch he was. "I mean, she knows I'm married. And to whom. She knows exactly who you are. The strong arm of the law. What does she want of me, d'you suppose?"
He shrugged. "Perhaps she wants... your opinion?"
"I don't have an opinion, Christopher," Sam pleaded. "It's none of my business."
He pursed his lips. "As attitudes to the book go, Sam, that definitely counts as an opinion."
"Oh, not the book. The book was awful. Preachy and intense. Well, you should know all that; you've read it, haven't you?"
"Only the, er, contentious bits," he grinned, and wrapped the strong arm of the law around her waist.
"Contentious, phooey. Just a lot of pining, martyrdom and self-denial, and one full-on kiss."
"Sounds like our courtship, then." He fixed her with two misty orbs of blue, framed by the crinkles of a soulful smile, and twinkled down at her in that languid way of his that Sam found so seductive.
"Stop that," she told him weakly. "How on earth can I stay miffed at you, when you do that?"
"Nnnot my problem," observed Christopher, stretching in his seat with the complacency of a contented husband.
"You're no help," Sam whinged.
"I am. I advised you to read the book. The rest is well outside my field." His grin was all the more infuriating for being right. "Rely on you to fill me in," he added.
Sam punched him in the shoulder.
"Ow," he said obediently, grasping her hand and kissing the knuckle. "When are you seeing Guy next?"
"Late Monday afternoon." Sam traced an interested finger over the velvety rim of his left ear, then down across his lips. "For the results of my blood test. Iron levels."
"I'll come with you to the surgery," he said. "Quite like a word with Guy about that murder on the beach."
Sam screwed up her face. "Oh, don't remind me."
Monday evening, 5th February, 1945
"Sam!" hissed Georgie, brandishing the letter she'd been nursing since arriving home, "Andrew thinks he's likely to get leave in the next week or so. I need to talk to you. Come upstairs for a bit!"
Drying her hands on her apron, Sam followed the younger woman out of the kitchen, pausing briefly at the foot of the stairs to call along the hallway, "Christopher, I'm upstairs with Georgie for a little while."
"Don't lift anything heavy without me," came the reply from his study.
It had become a familiar refrain. Over the past week of evenings, various items of furniture had been rearranged on the top floor, and linens hung and draped. Sam had been forbidden to lift or heft; the donkey-work being done by Christopher and Georgie between them—that basically meant Christopher, with a little bit of almost-hindrance from Georgie, which he tolerated patiently. Their guest was now established comfortably in what had begun to look like a small two-room flat. And it was in two ancient armchairs in the improvised attic sitting room that she and Sam were now seated.
"So anyway," began Georgie in businesslike manner, "I've had this letter, and he's going to be coming home. But I haven't said as much to Christopher yet, because he seemed a little moody over dinner and I didn't want to get his hopes up, just in case it doesn't come off."
Sam laid a hand on Georgie's knee and looked apologetic. "I know. He's been a complete misery all evening. It's to do with work, so he won't open up about it. Don't take it personally. How can I help?"
The question was for form's sake, really. Sam had a good idea what was coming, and faint alarm bells began to ring in her head. She was about to enter a minefield, and would be required to steer a careful path avoiding anything that contravened Christopher's discretion warning.
Georgie fiddled with the pages of the ample letter. "If he's coming in a week, then he'll be here for Valentine's Day. And the following weekend, when you and Christopher are off to Lyminster for your father's winter concert, Andrew and I are going to be alone together in the house." She waggled her knees beneath a nervously excited grin. "What do you suppose will happen?"
Sam played for time. "Ohhhh, I should think... he'll take you to the pictures, and for dinner at Benito's."
"Sam!" It was an exclamation of reproach. "You know that isn't what I mean. He wrote me this..." She thrust a page into Sam's hands, then sat back, jiggling her knees impatiently. "I'm no Oxford scholar, but I think that I can read between the lines."
Intrigued, Sam sat back in her armchair, and reached up to pull the cord that would illuminate the standard lamp behind her. The page she held was written in the spiky hand she recognised from Andrew's notes to her when they were walking out. She began to read:
Earthbound,
I soar in presence of your tenderness;
Aloft,
I pine to skim my wheels along the wildflowers of your meadow;
My wits desert me in the heaven of your gentle gaze.
A hand flew to Sam's lips, to cover an involuntary smile. To say that this was corny was an understatement, but she was not precisely sure that Georgie would agree with her, and so she schooled her brows into a frown of concentration, and pressed on.
Light me down to safety, beacon of my passion;
Give me haven in the hangar of your heart.
Sam blinked. No such sentiments had ever been expressed in Andrew's missives to her: 'Chin up, old girl. Look after Dad. I'll see you when I'm next in Hastings.'
"That's... just lovely, Georgie," she managed through her fingers. "He's missing you, quite obviously."
"Obviously." Georgie nodded sagely. "And this time, I've a feeling he has serious intentions. I really ought to put him off, though, oughtn't I?" Her eyes pleaded openly for guidance.
"Well," began Sam, skirting the subject, "he was a perfect gentleman before..."
"...when he was about to go off on operations, yes. But now he's back, and not much likelihood of flying. So he'll be looking for his thrills elsewhere. Ta-daa!" and Georgie swept two hands full-length along her body, throwing her hands wide to demonstrate the wares. She leant forward, elbows on knees, briskly practical as ever. "Now then. What do I do?"
"What do you want to do?" hedged Sam, attempting to look wise.
Georgie's face revealed that she thought her answer obvious. "I want to sleep with him so badly, I feel like a loose woman! But I shouldn't, should I? I need hints and tips from someone with experience of saying 'no'." She paused. "How did you handle Christopher? I suppose he was a perfect gentleman for ages."
Sam coughed into her hand, to clear the frog that had just hopped into her windpipe.
"Mmyes. Yes. Oh, absolutely."
Her eyes strayed guiltily askance before she'd caught herself enough to bring them into check, refocusing upon the poem with exaggerated concentration. But she wasn't quick enough, and Georgie smelt a rat. The girl leant forward, interposing her face into Sam's line of sight.
"How long before you slept with him?" she asked determinedly, eyes narrowing.
Sam squinted at the ceiling. "Ooh. I'd known him... let's see... four-and-a-half years."
"Pants on fire, Samantha Foyle!" shot back Georgina. "You know that isn't what I'm asking. Counting from the first..."—she pushed her tongue out, anchoring it between her lips to aid her concentration as she grasped for the elusive hook that would secure her an honest answer—"counting from the first kiss!" Her eyes flashed, and then narrowed, pinning Sam without the slightest mercy.
Sam mumbled something quickly in a small voice.
"Eh?" Georgie cocked an ear and moved in closer. "Didn't hear you."
"HALF AN HOUR," cried Sam in desperation, before adding in a low voice, "If he ever finds out that I've told you, I am for the high jump."
Georgie's face was doing an impression of The Scream by Munch; but when her mouth eventually closed, she sat back in her chair and observed quietly, "I've brought my custom to the wrong shop, haven't I?"
Sam fixed her with a pitying gaze. "You've bought a Foyle, Dear. No one said it would be easy. But there's one piece of good advice that I can give you."
The younger woman looked up hopefully.
"Our bedroom. Top drawer of the left-hand bedside cabinet. They're no good to us at the moment. So… spare supplies in case you should run out."
Georgie's eyes stretched. "Wull, I've still got the one you gave me before…"
Sighing, Sam rolled her eyes heavenward, but she could not suppress a cat-and-cream smirk. "Ahem. Well, if he's anything like his father..."
Tuesday morning, 6th February, 1945
The morning after his short interview with Grindley at the surgery, Foyle's arrival at the station was an unusually early one. He strode into the foyer under thunderous brows, and leaving Georgie lingering there uninstructed, walked purposefully past Brooke's 'Good morning, Sir' with a monosyllabic grunt, before doubling back behind the front desk to the key-cupboard. There he removed the spare keys to Milner's office and filing cabinet, and disappeared off down the corridor.
Brooke craned his neck to watch the figure of his boss retreat from view, before addressing an uncomfortable-looking Georgie. "What's eating Mr Foyle, then?"
"Don't ask me," she shrugged, edging forwards to rest a hand on Brookie's counter. "He's been terribly quiet since last evening. And this morning, quite out of the blue, he knocked at my door at an unearthly hour to say he had to make an early start. I haven't even eaten breakfast. And I bet I look a proper fright, as well. No time to do my hair or make-up..."
Brookie took in her perfect dark brown curls and rose complexion, "Nah, Love, you look a picture," he told her honestly. "Come on," he patted her hand. "You and me'll have a cup o'cha, eh? And a plate of broken biscuits. It'll sort itself out."
Foyle let himself into Milner's office, where he unlocked the file-drawer and walked his fingers briskly along the suspended contents, withdrawing several sets of files. As he left, he closed Milner's door behind him, then strode into his own office with the folders underneath his arm. There he sat, and pored over their contents for a full hour, leaning forwards on one elbow and massaging his forehead in weary incredulity.
Brooke knocked and poked his head inside at one point, with a cheery, "Cuppa, Sir?" but was met with a distracted wave of the hand. "Not now, Brooke."
When Milner walked in at his usual time, he picked up the clue of his boss's early arrival from Georgie's presence in the kitchen. Seeing Mr Foyle's door ajar, he wandered further down the corridor to wish him good morning.
The DCS was sitting in his shirtsleeves and braces, apparently engrossed in paperwork. Milner leant inside and, for form, knocked on the half-open door.
Foyle started momentarily and looked up, but his brows contracted at the sight of Milner. "Come in. Shut the door." There was a clipped neutrality in his voice that Milner found unsettling.
"Anything wrong, Sir?"
Foyle canted his head and considered a response. His brows rose over hooded lids. "Well, ah. Let's poke a stick at that presumption, shall we?"
Paul held himself entirely motionless, unblinking, and uncomfortably aware now that he hadn't been invited to sit down. "Sir?"
If he'd any sense of having misjudged his boss's mood of cold, restrained fury, that vanished now, for Foyle commenced addressing him with that same upward lilt of intonation usually reserved for suspects being reeled in to account. "I come back from secondment to the news we've had a murder? Sad testimony that not every piece of human scum's engaged in fighting for the Führer? One or two of 'em still lingering on our own side of the Channel."
DS Milner's stance was rigid and unsmiling. He knew better than to relax at this point in proceedings. "You... could say that, Sir."
Foyle gave a nod as if to register the fact. "I just did. So—a sad reality."
His eyes were not on Milner as he spoke, but swept across the desk and settled on the window to one side.
"And when exactly did you plan to tell me 'bout the string of murders all along the south coast? Every victim being a perfect match for Sam's age and description? How'd you like to justify that?" Foyle's eyes rose, stretching wide to challenge Milner's, his lips pulled taut into a pained, entirely mirthless grin that boded imminent demolition of its target.
"I have to glean this all-important fact by chance, and from my family doctor?"
Milner lifted a hand, as if to underpin an explanation.
"Sir, I did intend, eventually..."
"Three." Foyle stood and paced round in front of his desk, hand slicing through the air in agitation. "We had three meetings last week during which I asked you, quite specifically, about background to this crime, and leads, and you had every—every opportunity to mention this, and didn't? Care to explain yourself? Because, to me, your conduct's nnnot acceptable."
Again, the wide-eyed challenge, and the canting of the head—demanding explanation.
"I'm sorry, Sir, I wanted just a bit more time..."
"You're sorry? Sam's just started work that takes her out well after dark, alone, and you are sorry?"
Milner's face evinced alarm. "I... didn't know, Sir." Even as he spoke the words, his after-hours chat with Sam inside his office several weeks before came flooding back. "Oh, God, Sir. I'm ashamed to say I'd clean forgotten. Fire-watching isn't she? She mentioned that she might..."
Foyle let out a long, weary breath and subsided against his desk, digging his hands into his pockets. "Time to what, Milner?" he asked with drained impatience.
"Sir?"
"You wanted 'a bit more time' to… what?"
"Er. Come up with a profile of the perpetrator, Sir." Paul gestured toward the files strewn across Foyle's desk. "You've seen the evidence that I've been working on. I simply wanted to have a more complete report to show you. Been working hard on this, while you've been away. I would have just liked to have things in more order before you..."
"Milner," Foyle let out a tense, exasperated breath. "You and I don't work like this. We don't sit on information. We exchange it."
Milner looked askance, embarrassed. "Do we though, Sir?"
Foyle's hands spread wide, uncomprehending. "Yes. Absolutely. We do."
"No, Sir. We don't."
"We... don't?" Foyle looked at him, bewildered, and saw upon the young man's face a level of grievance similar to his own.
"No, Sir," said Milner, quietly.
Foyle ran a weary hand across his brow. "God knows what's going through your mind at the moment, Paul, but it's absolutely no excuse for being totally bloody unprofessional, frankly."
He gestured to the chair in front of him. "Sit down."
Milner remained standing.
"Sit down. Will you? Please? And explain to me. Because I have nnno clue what this is about."
He watched as Milner sighed and lowered himself into the chair. The emotion Foyle read on his sergeant's face was partly shame, but penitence was vying with frustration. The first was unsurprising, but the second...? The DCS regarded him from under knitted brows, and waited.
Finally, it came: "You see, Sir," Milner began, painfully, "on cases, you absorb it all, and do it in your head. It's as if you hoover up the pieces of the puzzle, and in time, the finished picture just emerges. Fait accompli. Once, just once, I'd like to solve the puzzle on my own. To reassure myself I can?"
Foyle rubbed his chin and sent the young man an appraising look. His every instinct to command was telling him to take control, but Milner wanted this, and badly enough to try and keep it to himself.
In fairness, Foyle admitted inwardly, he had been absent when the case was opened, and, from what he'd read this morning, the overriding reason why the string of deaths had remained on file so long, but unconnected, lay with Fielding's fondness for the insular approach, protective as he was of his empire up the coast at Hythe.
Milner had, undeniably, uncovered and pursued the connection on his own initiative. Foyle's own irritation, if he analysed his feelings, stemmed entirely from his worries over Sam. Also, he admitted, in the flurry of recent supervening events, he had something of his own to throw into the mixture.
All things being equal, Foyle concluded, Milner deserved a chance. He took a deep breath.
"You can handle this case on one condition, Milner. You pass full reports of any findings immediately to Hythe and Ramsgate, and keep me up to speed twice-weekly on your progress. Considering what's at stake here, I won't have unnecessary risks arising from delays in sharing information."
Paul's ears reddened, and his gaze sank to his lap. "This means a lot, Sir."
"Yes. Believe me, Milner, when I tell you that the outcome means a lot to me, as well. Don't let me down."
The sergeant met his boss's gaze, a weight of worry lifted from his features. "I won't, Sir."
"You can borrow Georgie when you need her—and you will need her, with necessary trips to Ramsgate and Hythe."
"Right, Sir." Milner's face was edging now towards a relieved smile.
His boss exhaled. "Also need to share with you..."—Foyle reached behind him—"spring of 1940. Murder of... Pauline Sansom. Stabbing. Add that to the rotten mix. Here's the file."
Paul reached and took it from his outstretched hand.
"Oh, and Milner?"
"Sir?"
Foyle sucked his teeth. "I reserve the right to interfere. You can have the rest of your files back later today."
...
"You, um, going to the library on your bike later, Sam?" Foyle asked deferentially that evening, over early dinner in the kitchen.
Uh-oh, thought Georgie. No. Please. No. And dug into her Woolton Pie.
"Yeees..." replied Sam, cautiously, edging toward the interrogative.
"Good! Splendid! Five, ten minutes maximum, you reckon? To get there, I mean?"
"Yeees..." Sam's eyes met Georgie's across the table, and encountered an identically-raised eyebrow.
"Fine! Marvellous." Her husband's tone was light and airy. "They have a telephone, do they?"
Sam frowned. "Well, obviously, Christopher. We couldn't summon the fire brigade by semaphore in the middle of the night."
"Right-oh." He rose and rubbed his hands together. "Just... give me a quick ring when you arrive, then?"
"Is that really necess—?"
"Humour me." Foyle gave a histrionic rueful smile. "We old chaps worry."
"Well, if you insist—"
"Thank you, my love. And you'll be coming home at what time in the morning?"
"The watch... ends... at seven-thirty," Sam replied suspiciously.
"Right you are. Well, I'll be off to do my paperwork now. Go carefully." He stepped around the table and kissed Sam on the head, then grinned at Georgie amiably. "Pardon me if I don't do the same to you."
Wednesday, 7th February 1945
It was barely light when Sam emerged from the stone-clad red brick portico of Hastings library onto Claremont, to find her husband loitering across the street. His collar was turned up, and he was leaning back against the wall of Holy Trinity, his hands sunk in the pockets of his overcoat, for all the world the image of a suspicious character in a Jimmy Cagney flick.
As he crossed the narrow and deserted street, Sam acknowledged him with a roll of her eyes, then turned to lift her bike from where she'd propped it up against the wall the previous evening.
"What a surprise," she remarked airily to the handlebars, tilting her cheek to accept his kiss of greeting. "Does your driver know you're out?"
He shrugged his brows. "I left a quick note on the kitchen table. But do I have to ask permission to come out and meet my wife these days?" He said this in a mildly irritated tone, rocking on his heels and waiting while she dropped her things into the wicker basket mounted over the front wheel.
In that moment, they were joined on the pavement by a slender but strong-shouldered woman, slightly older than himself, Foyle estimated; chestnut hair shot through with grey, serene of countenance, and immaculately turned out—Foyle presumed in deference to her day job, managing the shop.
Foyle raised his hat. "Miss Chance."
"Mr Foyle," the woman nodded back. Her voice was soft and clear, but there was something in the intensity of her gaze that unsettled Foyle, as if she were holding back.
"How's, ah, business at Sayer's?" he asked, to break the awkward silence.
Miss Chance's expression lightened, seemingly grateful for a subject she could tackle easily. "Steady. We have a new line in flat-brimmed fur-felt trilbies in our gents' department. If we can tempt you away from Dunn & Co..."
Foyle frowned a smile. His instinct told him to inquire how on earth she would know where he took his custom—there were, after all, several gents' outfitters in Hastings—but he contented himself with a polite tilt of the chin.
"Creature of habit, Miss Chance."
"Ah?" the woman's interrogative was more philosophical than challenging. "Well habit is a powerful thing, to be sure. But inclination sometimes wins the day."
While Foyle pondered her remark, Ellen turned a warm smile upon his wife. "Goodbye, Samantha. I shall hope to see you here on Thursday night." She dressed her last words with a swift, inquiring glance at Foyle.
To his surprise, Samantha leant across and pecked the woman on the cheek.
"Bye, Ellen. Yes, I'll be here."
The eyes of Ellen Chance alighted one last time on Christopher, and as he raised his hat a second time to mark their parting, he fancied he could read a reticence within them once again.
The Foyles began their short walk home along the seafront, with Sam wheeling her bicycle alongside her.
"I'll push that for you," offered Christopher, placing his hands on hers to take hold of the handlebars. Sam moved round to his other side and slid her arm through his.
"Why did you come to meet me?" she asked. "I've told you not to fret."
"Nunno," he reassured her. "Needed some fresh air. I woke quite early. Couldn't sleep without you there."
They strolled on for a little while.
"Your new friend doesn't converse like a milliner," Foyle ventured casually. "How long has she been in hats?"
Sam's eyes slid sideways, and a small smile curled her mouth. Clever Christopher, it never takes him long. "I think she said about ten years," she told him in an offhand tone, knowing perfectly well what Ellen had said. "Before that, she taught art at Hastings High. But they 'retired' her."
"Oh? Rrright." Something began to gnaw at Foyle's memory, but stubbornly refused to fall into place. "Retired her because...?"
"Heart murmur was the official reason, she said."
"And... the real one?"
"Heartbreak."
"Ah." Christopher was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You learned a lot about her in one night."
"Mmm-hmm. I also learned her girlfriend's in the ATS and mans the guns on West Hill." Sam saw his face. "Yes, she has a girlfriend."
"The girlfriend would be... younger than herself, then?"
"Mmm." Sam gave him a sly sidelong glance. "She has a younger woman in her life. Exactly like you."
Reasoning that he'd deserved that, Foyle pushed his lips into a moue without remark.
They'd strolled as far as East Parade before he asked: "What did you tell her about you?"
"Well, as I said before, she seemed to know a lot about me—us—already."
Foyle halted, squinting closed one eye in puzzlement. "So, what's her game? That walking around in the buff. And the lending of the book. What's her interest in you?"
"Oh, that?" Sam waved her hand dismissively. "I think I overreacted. Ellen went to art school." She looked at Christopher triumphantly, as if that actually explained it.
He answered with a look of scepticism that bordered on derisive. "You're going to have to do better than that," he said.
"I mean," Sam clarified patiently, "they're quite relaxed about that sort of thing. The 'body beautiful', you know. In any case, she isn't interested in me..."
Sam paused and took a breath. "She's actually interested in you."
"Me?" Foyle looked at her as if she'd lost her senses. "For what?"
Whatever breed of answer he might have been expecting, the one he actually got was quite a different animal.
"For Rosalind," said Sam.
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
"Sir William Whatsisname-Hicks"
Sir William Joynson-Hicks, Bt. (= baronet) was a Conservative politician who served as Home Secretary from 1924 to 1929. A reactionary, by all accounts, he was no fan of 'the Roaring Twenties', didn't like nightclubs, and The Well of Loneliness got right up his patrician nose, to the extent that he made the banning of it something of a personal project.
What can one say? If he were alive today, he'd be turning in his grave. Har ;o)
...
I discovered while I was researching this that one of my favourite British comediennes, Jo Brand, happens to be a former pupil of Hastings High School—now Helenswood Academy. (Must stress here, this is a 'by the way', and has absolutely no connection with current subject matter; although the unconventional Jo has had to suffer some name-calling in her time, based on inaccurate assumptions made about her sexual orientation.)
...
More soon.
GiuC