L'Aimant – Chapter 47
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 47: Picking up the pieces in the aftermath.
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:
My painstakingly meticulous (*ahem!* I-Googled-it-briefly) research tells me Pebsham Aerodrome did exist on the land of Pebsham Farm, St Leonards, and was operational for a short time in the 1950s. Planning for an aerodrome began in 1937 or earlier, but as far as I can tell, the use of it in wartime was never carried through. I'd be surprised if it ever had an infrastructure—telephones, for instance. So its use as an excuse to bring Alick Fielding to Hastings is just my little fiction. No snarky letters from locals, please!
…
Thanks as ever to dancesabove and her memory for detail. And for putting some crucial words into Christopher's mouth.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
"You!" yelled Anselm. "Run to the pub and call an ambulance. Quick sharp."
Davis blanched. He recognised the bloke who'd barked the order. Last time he'd clapped his eyes on that, its fist had laid him out, and next thing he remembered, Sarge had slapped a wet towel round his chops and said, "Wake up, you dopey bugger, here's some tea".
His jaw took on a stubborn set.
"There ain't that many ambulances to be had in Hastings, mate. We'll have to take her in the police car, but I'll run and fetch a doctor. Right?"
"Right. Get going," Anselm shot back.
Davis turned on his heel, and ran. He'd run in competitions as a boy, and he could cover ground like lightning if he knew where he was heading. This was something he could do. And do it right.
"I need," grieved Foyle helplessly, beside Sam on the shingle, "need to hold her."
Anselm knelt behind him, shielding him from view. "I know, Sir. Know you do," he told him softly. "Here, I'll help you lift her on your lap. Just be careful that you keep her head supported. There."
And thus it was that, on the anniversary of his first wife's death, Foyle clutched the limp form of his second wife against him—in the very place she'd won his heart—and faced the likelihood of losing her, his child, and, not impossibly, his sanity.
Chapter 47
Wednesday, 21st February 1945
That... colour... no... can't... wh...? Her brain fought to make sense of information coming from her eyes, but fear and overwhelming nausea were the only things real to Samantha in her first seconds of consciousness. The terror didn't stem from a confusion about where she was, nor even who—for both of those ideas were too sophisticated. The only question real to Sam, as she came to, was what am I? Not knowing was a fourteen-second hell that seemed to stretch for minutes. In that small space of time before her mind began to cope again with basic concepts, Sam was just a seeing, nauseated entity gripped in a vice of panic.
That panic must have voiced itself in a small cry, for then it was that Sam became aware of burning soreness in the place she now could put a name to as her throat. Her left hand—which she found she couldn't move—was a long, throbbing source of aches that radiated up her arm; her swallowing was painful, and each breath she took increased the irritation, causing her to cough.
Sam tried to raise her head, and in the next moment, felt cool fingers ghosting down her cheek, and heard a man's soft, ragged tones.
"Thank God!" The phrase emerged between a whisper and a half-choked sob.
Sam made to turn her head towards the voice, but found the movement difficult. Her neck was stiff—impeded, she was shocked to find, by swelling underneath her chin. She managed just enough to see a man's head, buried brow-first in the bedclothes at her side. Her gaze alighted on a mat of greying chestnut curls, but only momentarily, for the head then lifted to reveal familiar blue eyes, reddened, swollen, and still moist from tears he'd evidently shed.
"Chris—"
A finger stayed her lips. "Don't try to talk, my darling. Here."
A hand slid underneath her head, and raised it. Next she felt the cold sensation of a glass of water pressed against her lips.
Sam sipped the cooling liquid gratefully.
"How did...?"
"Three hours. You've been unconscious three hours." Christopher's other hand crept under the bedclothes, feeling for her fingers. He lowered her head back to the pillow, and once satisfied that Sam was settled, he turned his head and called, "Edith? Edith! She's awake!"
The sound of hurried footfalls on the stairs soon followed, then the bedroom door creaked open, and Edith Milner's hopeful features peered around it.
"Mr Foyle, that's wonderful! Hello, Sam." Edith sent her the concerned but toothy smile Sam recognised from when she'd been in hospital with anthrax. "You had us worried for a while there."
"Edie?" croaked Sam. "What are you...?"
"Sshh," soothed Christopher, and turned to the young woman in the doorway. "Edith, would you kindly telephone to Guy?"
"Of course. May I just...?" Edith walked up briskly to the bed, and smiling her apology to Foyle, took charge of the wrist he was still holding. She lifted the nurse's watch pinned to her cardigan and consulted it with solemn concentration.
"Good; steady," she announced happily, looking up. "So… let me just... excuse me, Sam…"
She placed a hand on Sam's brow, gently pulling back first one eyelid, then the other. "Pupils are even." Then, from the pocket of her waisted pinafore, which ballooned under the twin challenges of stored accoutrements and advancing pregnancy, she produced a small, unfiltered torch and shone the light into each of Sam's eyes in turn.
"Both reacting properly. That's splendid, Sam!"
She squeezed Sam's right hand and beamed at Foyle, handing him a bottle marked 'codeine' and a spoon.
"She can have a dose of this in water to kill the pain. I'll telephone the doctor now."
"Chris—" began Sam again, then muted her tone to a whisper, discovering it put less strain on her throat. "Christopher, why is Edith here? Seven months... gone. Should be... resting. What... how did I...?"
Foyle's eyes turned to follow Edith Milner as she left the room, one hand supporting the small of her back. His attention then reverted to his wife, whose right cheek was severely swollen and her eye half-closed.
"You don't remember... anything?" he asked gravely, pouring out the medicine into a small glass and diluting it with a little water.
A sudden panic, more specific than her earlier unease, seized Sam. The eyes that darted to meet her husband's were suffused with fear.
"Was I... in an accident? Oh... oh Lord, Christopher." Her good hand dived back under the covers in haste to check her abdomen. "I haven't... we haven't...?"
Foyle held her gaze and shook his head once with deliberate emphasis. "No, my love. Lie still. Guy did examine you. No bleeding... but you must rest."
"Why Edie, then?"
"Paul brought her. Guy said we should have a nurse to watch you because of he blow to your head... Paul suggested Edith."
He held the small glass to her lips. "Drink. It will ease the pain."
"Christopher... what... happened to me? Remember... leaving Ellen... then nothing."
A silent Thank God filled his mind.
"Yes, you were in an accident," he lied. "You have two broken fingers. We found you, and we brought you here. It... seems likely that you have concussion, too."
Sam's hand left her abdomen and crept up to her neck. "Awfully swollen," she rasped. "Worse than... laryngitis. Skin... terribly sore..."
"Yes, my love, it must be. We'll get you..."
"More ice?" Edith was back at the door, bearing a fresh ice bag on a tray, to replace the melted one discarded on the bedside cabinet.
"Doctor's on his way," she continued brightly, depositing the tray on the dressing table. "Sam, this will help your throat... and face..." she added quietly, handing the bag to Foyle. "We're going to hold it to you for as long as you can stand. I can do this if you like, Mr Foyle...?"
"Nunno." Christopher was giving no quarter in his position next to the bed. "Thhank you, Edith."
Sam tried to add her own thanks with a smile, but found that as she did so, her right eyelid and the right side of her jaw both pained her. She probed experimentally with her tongue inside her mouth, then turned alarmed eyes on her husband.
"Christopher," she whispered urgently, "I think... loose tooth... two teeth."
Edith bustled to the bedside. "Show me where?"
Sam raised a finger to her jaw.
"Back tooth?" nodded Edie. "Easier." She reached into the bulging pocket of her pinafore, and brought out a square of lint, which she folded into a soft pad. "Have another little drink to ease your throat, then bite down firmly on this, and keep your jaw clamped shut for as long as you can bear."
Foyle gave Edith a grateful look and mouthed Thank you, before clasping Sam's hand once more in his own, his eyes fixed mournfully on her swollen eye as he applied the ice, first to her cheek, then to her neck in turn. And every time he closed his lids to cool the burning from his recent tears, his mind began to conjure ways of killing Fielding deader than John Anselm had already left him.
...
"There you go, Mr Anselm. I've put four sugars in it." Brooke slid the cup and saucer towards Anselm from DS Milner's side of the table. "'Ave yourself a nice biscuit with that, eh?"
Milner's hand settled across his mouth and covered the beginnings of, he felt, a probably inappropriate smile. The plate Brooke proffered was piled high with what appeared to be the constabulary's entire biscuit quota for the next two weeks.
Anselm, denied by aggravated circumstance the hearty breakfast fry-up he had planned, roused himself from a reclined position in his chair to view the fare on offer. Surveying the selection as his thumb and forefinger hovered over the plate, he ran his tongue across his teeth.
"So, would these be... Peek Freans? Crawford's?"
Milner noticed that Anselm's little finger stuck out sideways like a fussy matron choosing chocolates from a box—which looked particularly incongruous, considering that the knuckles of the man's large hand were badly scarred from long-healed injuries.
Brooke beamed proudly. "Even better. Huntley an' Palmers from a posh tin. Dig in, now. You must be 'ungry."
Closing the interview room door behind him, Brooke rubbed his hands together and suppressed the urge to whistle. Only half an hour earlier, Edith Milner had rung the station with the news that Mrs Foyle was awake, and talking; and the awful pall of gloom had lifted from the corridors of Hastings nick, as if the final All Clear had been sounded.
Back in the foyer, Brooke delved into his trouser pocket and slapped two bourbon creams onto the counter in front of Davis.
"Here you are, Sunshine. Reckon you've earned those."
"Oh, ta, Sarge!" Davis' face lit up, then promptly fell as he examined the offering more closely. "'Ere!" he whinged, "there's bits of pocket-fluff on this one..."
Brooke peered down with half-hearted interest. "So there is. Well ain't you lucky? Biscuits and a bit of fluff an' all. An 'ungry young man's dream, is that."
...
"Arrived Hastings 1600 hours yesterday by train," recited Anselm, savouring a mouthful of shortcake. "Secured accommodation with Neil Moser at the East Beach Street Café. We hit it off last time I was in Hastings."
"Name rings a bell," said Milner. "Isn't he ex-police?"
"That's right."
"And this morning?" prompted Paul.
"Came out early, oh seven-hundred, for a run before breakfast. Headed east past the fishermen's huts, and out along the foot of the cliffs, then back again. I like to do a quick two miles first thing. Just fortunate my circuit brought me back along the fronts of the huts, otherwise I would've missed him. Also lucky that the seabirds were so bloody noisy. He'd've heard me coming, otherwise. Shale's not exactly quiet underfoot."
"What did you see?"
"I saw her struggling with him, on her back. I saw the cord around her neck. I saw him punch her unconscious." Anselm parked the half-eaten biscuit in his saucer, winced, and took a swig of tea as if to clear his palate of a nasty taste. "I saw him kick her legs apart; I heard him say, 'I'm going to enjoy you...'"
Milner looked up sharply from his note-taking. "Heard him say what?"
"You heard right. Then he laughed. Sick bastard. And his back was to me, but I saw his hand drop to his belt."
Paul put down his pen and sat back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips. He drew a long, deep breath in through his nose, held it for a moment, then exhaled.
"I was going to ask you: Did you need to break his neck? But now I'll rephrase the question." He met Anselm's eyes and enunciated carefully: "When he attempted to attack you, Mr Anselm, what did you do?"
Anselm grinned. "My defensive training kicked in. I swung him round and got him in a strangle-hold. He struggled, and his neck snapped."
Milner leant in to write again. "... defensive... kicked in... strangle-hold... struggled... neck snapped." He turned the paper round and pushed it across the table towards Anselm. "Does that read all right to you?"
Anselm scanned the page and stuck his hand out for the pen. "Fine. Sign at the bottom?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
Paul reached across for a biscuit.
"Leave the Highland Shorties," instructed Anselm, adding a finishing curlicue.
...
"If it weren't for Mrs Milner, I would insist Sam be admitted."
Grindley addressed Foyle in his sitting room as Edith made her way back upstairs to sit with her patient.
"As it is, now she's awake and, mercifully, coherent, it's simply watch and wait. The memory loss... is slightly worrying, but for now, it might be a blessing in disguise. Provided it corrects itself fairly soon."
Foyle studied him intently. "How soon would that be, Guy?"
The doctor dropped his head and pursed his lips, considering.
"Not an exact science, Christopher. And given what she's been through, we can't be certain whether the cause is concussive or selective."
The querying rise of Foyle's chin led Grindley to elaborate. "I mean, she's choosing to forget."
"The brain can do that?"
"The mind can. The memories are still there, when she's ready to revive them. There's no other sign of brain damage. Sam recognises us; she forms her words; and she can focus, and co-ordinate the hand and eye; she's concerned that Mrs Milner's here, so she's aware of context..."
Foyle nodded. "Immensely grateful to Edith. But now that Sam's awake, I'll see to her, and my daughter-in-law will be here to help."
"You don't need to be at the station?"
"I need to be here, Guy." Foyle started on his inside cheek.
Grindley recognised the unfocussed stare that signalled a refusal to negotiate. "This is not your fault, man."
"Mmy responsibility, however. And I'll manage it. This time, properly."
There was no arguing with the stubborn cast of his features. Guy reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
"I'll call in again this evening, Christopher. Mrs Milner needs to stay at least till then. If she can manage to come in tomorrow, that would be good as well."
Foyle's lids closed with a curt nod. There was no doubt the impatience was directed at himself, and Grindley noted that his eyes crept left towards the mantelpiece. Unusually, today it bore the photograph of Rosalind.
"Ah." Guy released his grasp. "That wasn't your fault either, old chap. Is today the day?"
The eyes that rose to meet his were intensely blue, and suddenly awash with pent-up pain and desperate unhappiness.
"I nearly lost it all again, Guy. From a moment's inattention." He reached the photograph down and studied it, before laying it aside on a low table. "It seems as if any woman who gets close to me pays with her life."
To Grindley, never party to the Caroline affair, or to her later grisly death, the statement seemed too sweepingly exaggerated, and not a little overwrought.
"Nonsense, man," he countered. "Rosalind died from germs, and Sam is very much alive. You get a whisky in your guts, now. Steel your nerves. Sam's tough. She bit the bastard back. I'll see you both this evening."
Foyle's head snapped up, the bubble of his self-absorption punctured. "She bit him?"
"Oh, yes. Although he hit her pretty hard, the blood around her mouth was mostly his, not hers."
Foyle winced, reminded of the blow, and reached to grasp the mantelpiece.
"Steady, man," consoled Grindley. "That Anselm fellow saw him strike her, but things progressed no further, rest assured."
With a concerned eye still on his companion, the doctor turned and plucked the whisky bottle from the bookshelf. Snagging a tumbler from the nearby tray he tossed it right-way-up, and caught it deftly, with the practised ease of a skilled surgeon. Never in his life, fatigued or not, had Grindley dropped an implement. He poured a hefty measure and pressed it into Christopher's hand.
"Drink this, old chap. Prescription from your doctor."
Foyle took a grateful, guilty swig. "Have one yourself, Guy."
"No, man. On this occasion, no. Your Mr Milner's wanting a post-mortem."
Grindley gathered up his Gladstone bag.
"And this one's going to be a pleasure to perform," he added, settling his hat on his head. "Who knows? His balls might end up in a pickle jar. And if they do, I promise you custodianship."
Foyle's eyes closed in acknowledgement of Guy's fellowship, coarsely expressed though it was, and he forced a smile.
With a parting squeeze of his friend's shoulder, Grindley exited the room and left the house.
...
Brooke took a moment to admire his reflection in the mirror of the Gents'—Looking good today, Sergeant! Squinting as he dipped his head, he ran still-damp hands through his dark waves, and then dried his fingers on the roller-towel that hung next to the basin. Oh you lucky girl, Flo!
As he stepped into the corridor, however, his buoyant mood was checked by the sound of small hitching sobs. They appeared to be coming from the visitors' lavatory, which also served as the ladies' powder-room for the brace of Mrs Foyles now working at the station. It could only mean one thing: the younger Mrs F had let her upper lip sag in the aftermath of all the morning's turmoil. Already, on the beach, the shock of it had set her weeping on his shoulder—until it grew apparent that Sam wasn't dead, as they'd first assumed she was. In fact, the moment Anselm's sharp exchange with Davis made it clear there was a need for medical attention, Mrs F the Younger had peeled herself away from him and rushed headlong to join the boss. As Brookie watched, she had half-skidded on her knees across the final foot of shale, then wrapped herself around the pair of them like a nipper left out of its parents' close embrace.
The DCS had never turned a hair, his eyes fixed on Samantha with a grieving vacancy that put the fear of hell in Brooke. And then, that Mr Anselm had got up and left them to it, sauntering across to Sergeant Milner and himself to sketch a quick, no-nonsense outline of the scene as he had come upon it. And in the urgency of everything—the business of the questions, and the dead man, and the doctor on the scene—Georgina Foyle had been pushed off to the side a bit. Then Milner had called Edie from the pub, and sent Georgie in the car to fetch her round to Steep Lane.
Now that Brooke thought of it, he supposed Georgie would really rather have remained with Mr Foyle and Sam, instead of which they'd made her fetch in Edith, expecting her to report back to the station and just carry on as normal.
Now it was lunchtime, and Brooke realised with a jolt that no one had clapped eyes on Georgie for the last hour. She'd even, he thought guiltily, missed out on his announcement when the phone had rung with Edie's message that Sam had come round, and was making sense.
Brooke pinched the tip of his nose, deciding what to do. After a moment he knocked, then rattled the handle to the washroom.
"Georgie? You in there? Come on out, love. Sam's awake and talking... talkin' nineteen to the dozen," he embroidered. "Come and share my sandwich, eh?"
The sobbing stopped. There was a pause and then some hurried snuffling back of tears, followed by the sound of a tap running and the rattle of the roller-towel on its wooden rod. The key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Georgie's eyes were swollen, her complexion roughly the same colour as her lips, which, given that those were naturally the colour of ripe cherries, made for a disconcerting image.
She stood immobile.
"Sam's awake?" She brought her wrist up delicately under her nose to catch residual escaping tears.
Brooke handed her his hanky. "That's right, love. Edie rang... just now,"—he crossed his fingers behind his back—"an' everybody's pleased as punch. Come out and have a bite to eat. You'll feel a whole lot better if you do."
Georgie's lip trembled. "Brookie. I'm not hungry. I just want to go home and see for myself how she is."
Sergeant Brooke surveyed the small figure before him. Now that the young woman was without her greatcoat, he was able to take in her outfit properly for the first time. Stockingless beneath her uniform skirt, a pouch of pale blue nightie spilling over at the waist, she looked unusual, to say the least. He glanced around. The foyer was deserted but for Davis, and Hardcastle, just in from his beat. A quiet day, after the upset of the early morning.
"Right," he said. "We'd better get you home, then. I'll tell Sergeant Milner and his mate."
"John killed him, didn't he?" Georgie edged out of the washroom, and leant against the wall, peering round Brooke towards the interview room.
"Stone dead." Brooke took up a position beside her. "He won't be coming back to bother Sam again. Or any woman, come to that. Milner says he's got to be the bloke that did the one on Pelham Beach in January, and several others over Hythe way, and at Ramsgate. Good riddance, I say."
Georgie shivered. "John seemed so quiet when I met him. But he hardly turned a hair out there on the beach."
"Yeah, well," observed Brooke, "like me old mum always says, still waters."
This brought a welcome cherub grin from Georgie, which he returned.
"I ought to get word to Andrew," she fretted, "but until I've seen how Sam is, and how Chris—how Mr Foyle is bearing up, I shan't know what to say." She turned a pleading look his way. "He looked so broken, Brookie..."
Brooke slid an arm around her shoulders. "Not something I want to see again. We'd best get you home, love. So you can see to them. Both of 'em."
...
Edith was preparing broth for Sam when she heard the key in the front door. She greeted the young woman with a broad smile of welcome.
"Glad my message got through to you. You must have been terribly worried."
"No exaggeration there, Mrs Milner." Georgie turned, and briefly bent to wave off Sergeant Brooke behind the wheel, then hung her coat and hat up hurriedly.
"Is it all right to go up?"
"Oh, I should think so. Call me..."—she trailed off—"Edie."
Before the older woman could complete her sentence, Georgie had bounded up the stairs, only checking her pace when she confronted the closed door of the main bedroom. There she halted, smoothed some order into her peculiar outfit, and rapped lightly.
"It's me. Georgie. May I come in?" Her tone was hopeful, but uncertain. There had been no reaction from Christopher when she'd wrapped her arms around him as he held Samantha on the beach.
A few seconds' pause, and the door swung inwards.
Christopher, in unbuttoned waistcoat, with his collar loosened, met her eyes with gentle gratitude, and blinked her admission with a slight tilt of his head.
"For all you did this morning, Georgie, thanks."
Georgie swallowed in relief, and entered.
Sam was dozing. She had turned her head to one side, two ice-packs stacked against her neck and cheek, obscuring all of her face up to the temple. Georgie shot Christopher a fretful look.
"Nnno cause for alarm," he told her kindly, guiding her to the bedside, a reassuring hand pressed to the small of the back. "She's quite drowsy, though. We've given her something for the pain."
Georgie took in Sam's bandaged left hand. "Ohhhh!" she covered her mouth in dismay. "Her hand. He broke her h—"
Christopher took her gently by the shoulder and turned her to face him, bringing a finger to his lips.
"She doesn't remember the attack," he whispered urgently.
The young woman's face crumpled. "It's just awf—"
Closing his eyes in empathy, Foyle folded his daughter-in-law in his arms, and rested his cheek against her curls. "All in good time," he whispered.
"We shall make her better, shan't we Christopher?" pleaded Georgie into his collar.
Foyle pressed his lips against her ear once, and released her.
"We shall."
...
It was six o'clock when Paul arrived at Steep Lane, both to collect Edith and to give Foyle a report of the day's happenings. By this time Sam had managed to take a little broth, and had been helped by both women on an unsteady trip to the bathroom, where they had sat her down and helped her change out of her underwear into her nightdress.
There had also been a visit from a stunned and chastened Ellen, who had shut shop early, having heard the news of the disturbance on the beach that morning from the wife of a fisherman, who had called in to buy a hat.
Now, in his sitting room at the end of an appalling day, Foyle sat across from DS Milner, who—elbows on knees—was relating what he'd learned. Apparently there had been a recent resurrection of the idea that Pebsham could be used for landing supply planes. Fielding had been despatched to look at how the lines might be installed.
"DTN HQ have met the news with shock, quite naturally, Sir," explained Milner, "and they're sending a man over in the morning with the old emergency logs we require as evidence. Not that it will go to trial now; well, obviously..." he quietened at his boss's expression. "But we can close the murders off, at least."
Foyle's eyes had glazed to a middle-distance trance as his imagination tortured him by conjuring the sort of conversation he'd be having now with Milner, were it not for Anselm's intervention.
"Um. Where's he staying?" Foyle tore his mind back to current business, unaware of the apparent non-sequitur.
"Sir?"
"Anselm. I'd... ah... like to thank him."
"Yes, of course, Sir. East Beach Street. The café. But he'll be at the station tomorrow. You could..."
"I shan't be."
"Shan't be what, Sir?"
Foyle rose and walked to the window. "At the station tomorrow. In fact, not until further notice."
Hands plunged inside his trouser pockets, he cast the briefest glance in Milner's direction, though he didn't raise his eyes. "So, um, there it is."
Milner let his hat swing by the brim between his knees. "Can't say I blame you for feeling that way at the moment, Sir..."
"Yep."
It was a pregnant word. For Foyle it bore the heavy burden of self-recrimination, melded with a firm resolve to not let Sam stray from his sight until... well, never mind. 'Until'. It closed the door on Milner's reference to 'the moment'.
To Milner's less emotional ear, that one word carried all the hallmarks of a resignation for precisely the wrong reasons; but he could tell from the older man's grim features that this was neither the time nor the place to argue motives or decisions. He was in the presence of a badly shaken husband, not his boss.
Instead he asked, "How is she, Sir?"
Foyle's eyes had softened when he'd turned to face his sergeant. "Vvvery grateful to Edith for her help. Sam hasn't... remembered... the attack yet." And nothing, he thought, nothing is going to prevent my being with her when she does.
"But she's... not uncomfortable," he added amenably, granting Milner the closest thing that he could offer to permission not to worry. In any case, it was no lie. The codeine had relieved the pain enough for Sam to sleep.
Milner gratefully grabbed the chance to turn the conversation back to things professional.
"I can understand your being worried, Sir. These things can take a time. We'd naturally like to have a statement to corroborate what Mr Anselm's said, just for the record. Though the physical evidence is more than adequate to support his account."
Foyle turned away in irritation. "Yes, well. Nnnot the first thing on my mind, Milner."
Milner fiddled with his hat uncomfortably. "No, of course not, Sir. I didn't mean to..."
Edith appeared in her hat and coat, smiling. "Georgie's sitting with her, Mr Foyle. I'll see you in the morning around eight."
Foyle crossed the room and took her hand in both of his. "I... we... appreciate all that you've done, Edith. Thank you."
Edith's eyes rose over him to meet her husband's; they exchanged a worried glance.
"I really think she's going to be fine, you know," she reassured Foyle. "I realise it's been an awful day, but Sam's a strong girl. Remember how she bounced back from the anthrax, once she got the right help? She looks bad now, but once the bruising and the swelling settle... in a week... you'll see... My patients have amazed me, often."
Foyle saw them to the door, and when he'd closed it after them, he trailed back to the dining room and stood before the portrait of Samantha with her bin lid, chin raised, firm of jaw, defiant, proud. And suddenly the anger hit him, welling from the roiling knot inside his stomach to a crescendoed pulsing of the blood inside his ears until his head could not contain it. The adrenalin spilled over, rushing down along his arms.
From where Georgina now stood in the doorway, she saw his left hand close into a fist, and watched in growing horror as he twisted and drew back his arm to aim a crashing blow toward the plaster underneath Sam's portrait.
"No! No, Christopher!" She darted forwards and threw her full weight against him, pinning his arm to his side.
"Please. No," she begged, and strove against the power of his anger to wrap her smaller hand around the rock-hard fist. "How does this help Sam? We need... Sam needs you... to be... you!"
Georgie's last words came out as an almost-sob, but in that instant of her desperation she had chosen just the right words to defuse his fury, for as she wrapped herself around him, he could feel it ebbing from his limbs, and Georgina saw the anger draining from his face.
Christopher let go a ragged breath and found his voice. "I don't... Forgive me."
He fought to bring his anguished features under some control. The fist unravelled to a gentle hand that slid around Georgina's waist and clasped her to him.
"I'm so sorry, Georgie, that you had to see that." He gave her a repentant look, then bit his lip.
Georgie nodded mutely, still rattled from the earlier display.
When they'd stood that way a moment, Foyle stepped away from her, and, straightening himself, restored some order to his loosened tie, then buttoned up his waistcoat.
"Georgie, would you be so kind and telephone to Andrew? Explain as best you can that he is nnnot to be concerned? That Sam's in good hands? Yours, and mine, and Edith's."
"Yes, of course. I'll do that." She watched him nod once without looking at her, then followed him with large eyes as he left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.
...
Georgie waited in the kitchen for the doctor's evening visit to conclude, and hoped against hope that she'd have a chance to speak to Grindley alone before he left.
Her call to Andrew had succeeded at the third attempt. RAF High Command took a dim view of personal communications with a serving officer on duty; announcing a matter to be urgent bore very little weight with the administrative staff, so accustomed were they to fending off unnecessary interruptions. Furthermore, Georgina had no desire to alarm her husband with dramatic messages such as 'someone tried to kill Sam'. When she finally did get hold of Andrew, she made sure to carry the telephone into the sitting room and close the door behind her. After which she directly disobeyed Christopher's instruction to tell his son not to be concerned.
"... it's been frightful. But it isn't Sam I'm worried about so much as Christopher. Your father's very angry, Andrew. I mean VERY angry. I caught him about to punch the wall... You heard... No, I didn't suppose you had... Although you spent some time away with your uncle and aunt after your mother died, didn't you?... Well, Darling, the point I'm trying to make is, how do you know what he was like?"
As Grindley lumbered down the stairs, the hoped-for opportunity presented itself, and Georgie led the doctor into the kitchen, worry written on her face.
"Holding the fort, young lady? No cause to fret now," Guy offered with a kindly smile. "I'm pleased with the patient."
His smile soon melted, however, when she told him what she'd witnessed in the dining room.
"Is that so," he reflected gravely. "Well, I won't say I'm not concerned, but your father-in-law's a very balanced man, in normal circumstances. These are not what I'd call normal, though." He hesitated. "I would hope that he'll settle down when Sam begins to heal... she's getting there already. Obviously, the hand's a problem... and we can't tell yet how she'll react when her memory of the incident returns."
"Do think that might be actually what's causing him the anguish?"
Grindley patted her arm. "You're a smart girl, Georgie, and you're absolutely right to tell me this, you know. We'll keep an eye on him together, shall we? You must be my spy."
"Well, in the day, I'll be at work, but... I'll certainly warn Edith to keep her eyes peeled."
"Wouldn't go amiss, my cherub. Right," he beamed at her and jammed his hat onto his head. "I'll be back tomorrow to see how everybody's bearing up."
...
"I ache all over, Christopher. Why can't I remember how I got this way?" Sam groaned.
"Plenty of time for that. Just concentrate on feeling better."
The swelling round Sam's right eye had almost closed it now, and a purple bruise extended from her temple to her jaw. Foyle hooked a lock of hair back from her brow and bent to kiss her forehead.
"I'd better let you rest." He dug under the pillow for his pyjamas, but her hand closed round his wrist.
"Don't go to Andrew's room. I want you here, with me. Or I shan't sleep."
"You'll sleep. The codeine..."
"No. Stay," she insisted.
Foyle changed and climbed in gingerly beside her, doing his best to touch no injuries. Samantha turned on her left side, her bandaged hand supported on the pillow next to her head. He drew her close against his lap, his right hand creeping round her waist to come to rest upon the gentle rise of her abdomen.
"Sleep, then," he said, and planted a soft kiss behind her ear. Sam recalled it was the same place where she'd dabbed the perfume that fateful morning—long since washed away when Edie had bathed and applied arnica cream to her neck that afternoon.
He reached up and turned off the bedside lamp.
"Christopher... Do I... ever remind you of Rosalind?"
The imprint of the now extinguished lightbulb lingered on his retina. He sensed a neediness behind the question.
"Rosalind? Wull, she was... much loved and respected... you'd have liked her, I don't doubt. Kind like you, and spirited, and brave.
"She was different in many ways, too... but never do I find myself wishing you were like her in those ways. For then you wouldn't be my Sam."
He waited, hoping he had chosen his words well, and to his relief, he felt Sam snuggle closer into him and interlace her fingers with his own.
After a moment she said, "Christopher, you're trembling."
"Your imagination, my love. Go to sleep."
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
Neil Moser mmmight be real ;o)
...
More soon.
GiuC