L'Aimant – Chapter 51
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 51: Foyle and Anselm stand together. Geraldine has a bone to pick with Iain. Guess who's coming to dinner?
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:
Huge thanks to dancesabove, who weighed in with some excellent suggestions for the storyline in general and one scene in particular; and who, as always, polished the entire chapter.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Guy brought his arms to rest upon the chest-high bench and parked his chin atop it. "Cook me dinner, Iris. It's been a while since I had my legs under your table."
Iris cast him a stern glance over her spectacles, then stood and shuffled her papers into some order. "I'm busy, I'm afraid, Guy..."
"Ah," he said, watching her intently, and rubbed his nose, and waited.
"...busy until tomorrow night." She bent to gather up her briefcase, pleasantly aware of his devilish gaze and insolent expectations. "Half past seven. Bring your bacon ration."
"They do say," observed Guy, eyes tracking her every move with impertinent familiarity, "that the war is winding down. I'm almost tempted to hang up my stethoscope; come and help you water your... sweet peas. And things."
Iris shot him an admonitory look that unsuccessfully masked indulgence.
"Last thing I want under my feet, in my old age, is another..." she gave his hair a pointed look, "unkempt old duffer to replace the last one, making my house look untidy and stomping on my seedlings."
Chin in the air, she gathered her belongings to her chest and made for the double doors at the rear of the courtroom.
Grindley dogged her steps, bending forwards as he walked so that his lips drew level with her ear.
"Don't linger on my account, Iris," he teased, enjoying the rustle of tweed skirt-pleat against seamed stocking. "In point of fact, I've things to do, myself. A visit to the barber's..." His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. "I'm going to have it curled and parted down the middle."
Iris quickened her pace and left him standing. "Turn up at my house looking like that," she called behind her, "and you'll feel my skill with the garden shears."
Guy settled his hat onto his head and, grinning in the mist of Elizabeth Arden's Blue Grass that hovered in Iris' wake, sauntered out of the panelled courtroom behind her.
Chapter 51
Friday, 9th March, 1945
"Christopher! He's getting away!" Sam tugged her husband's sleeve and pointed towards the tall figure striding away from them across the lobby. Foyle craned his neck to follow the direction of Sam's finger, just as Anselm turned a corner and disappeared from view.
"Well, um, I don't have any jurisdiction over... er..."
Sam's pleading look stemmed his mild protest. No-to-Sam was not in his vocabulary today—nor any day, much, since the incident. Her hand slid through the crook of his elbow and gripped his wrist in obvious frustration.
He patted her forearm. "Let me see what I can, um..."
Peeling himself free, he started down the corridor at an almost-trot. The echo of his hurried footfalls resounded from the polished marble floor of the court building, amplified by the tattletale acoustics of the atrium-like foyer. While stealth was not Foyle's precise aim, neither was he particularly wishing to advertise the urgency of his pursuit. Consequently, when he rounded the corner earlier negotiated by Anselm, only to find his quarry poised with one hand on the door into the Gents', and looking directly at him with a quizzical expression, Foyle's only option was to feign a different sort of urgency he didn't actually feel.
"Hearing dragged on a bit too long, did it, Sir?" There was an incipient grin on Anselm's face, and though Foyle felt his hackles rise at the impertinent assumption that he couldn't hold his water, his only chance of throwing Anselm off the scent was to agree.
"Could say," he managed grudgingly. But then the mutuality of their situation struck him, enabling him to recover with, "Affected you the same way, did it?"
"First chance I've had since leaving London, Sir."
"Ah." Foyle marvelled quietly at the casual continence of youth.
Anselm shoved the door and stood aside politely. "After you."
And with that, Foyle found himself squired into the urinal.
The two men took up positions next to each other, eyes firmly fixed upon the wall before them. Squinching an eye to aid his concentration, Foyle realised, to his growing mortification, that he wasn't actually in any position to 'produce'. Anselm, meanwhile, amplified Foyle's chagrin by voiding with the confidence and pressure of a mains-fed water tap.
Just as the torrent was abating, the door into the Gents' swung open to admit a third contender, and in walked Davis. Quick assessment of the current clientele appeared to alter his intention, and by the time either occupant had looked around, the young constable had already beaten a hasty retreat.
Anselm moved to the basin and began to wash his hands.
"Happens to my dad sometimes, that," he observed, with a sympathetic nick of the head in Foyle's direction.
This aspersion was the final straw for Foyle. Tucking himself back inside his clothing in exasperated haste, he stepped across and faced the younger man through the washroom mirror.
"Look, dammit, John. Sam sent me after you. Desperate to thank you properly. And, um, for that matter, so am I. We'd like to ask you to the house. So will you come?"
Anselm met Foyle's eyes for a brief instant before they finished their ablutions.
"I'm on a local job this afternoon and most of tomorrow, Sir, but Sunday probably wouldn't be a problem."
Foyle nodded in relieved assent. "Fffine. I'll tell Sam. Shall we say... half past one for lunch?"
"Should be all right, Sir. Just need to check that the timing sits well with the Powers That Be, if you can give me a few minutes to report in and find out..."
A moment later they were on their way back to the lobby. Behind them, Davis, who'd been hopping awkwardly from foot to foot a little further down the corridor, regretful of his second morning cuppa, now slunk gratefully into the Gents'.
Foyle struggled to locate Samantha in the teeming lobby. Several hearings had concluded business since the inquest had adjourned, and the foyer was milling with bodies; but when a pair of tallish men moved off towards the doors that led onto the street, Sam's crimson hat bobbed into view. She looked to be in animated conversation with a trim-figured woman who stood with her back to him.
Foyle turned to take a temporary leave of Anselm, but the body language of the younger man announced that he was heading in the same direction—towards Sam.
Then Sam's companion slowly turned around, and though the woman's head was bowed, the cane she held in her right hand left Foyle in no doubt: It was Hilda Pierce.
...
"So that's the company you kept in London," observed Sam, reaching up to draw the pin out of her hat.
"You know," she went on, teasing shamelessly, "the way she looks at you reminds me of a python sizing up her prey. They do that sort of thing, you know. I read about it once. Sly and quiet. They measure you by stretching alongside you... seeing if you'll fit."
"Wull, don't know what variety of 'keeping company' you mean," remarked her husband, hanging up his trilby, "but stretching alongside me didn't figure. In any case, this time she isn't here for me. You heard her say she's here on local business..."
"Hill House?" put in Sam, reminiscing on her fleeting, earlier encounter with Miss Pierce.
"Mebbe. Isn't politic to ask. At any rate, she says she can spare Anselm for our lunch on Sunday. And that's all we need to know."
"There was a glint of serpent in her eye, though—moment that she saw you. I think she might be working up to something..."
"Mwell, let's hope not, because, if so, the answer would have to be—"
"Don't waste your breath," sighed Sam. "You're such a soft touch when it comes to King and Country."
She moved away, and once inside the sitting room released her hair and combed the locks loose with her fingers.
"Such a headache every time I put it up now."
Foyle followed and took her left hand in his own—her fingers still supported in their leather sheath—and pressed it to his lips.
"My soft touch is reserved for you these days. Nnnot leaving you again."
"I love your resolution, Darling, but we'll see how things turn out," she said.
"Stop being cleverer than me." It was a grumble to divert attention from his obvious contentment. He touched his forehead against hers, and kissed her.
Saturday, 10th March, 1945
Geraldine Stewart bustled into the kitchen laden with provisions, and plonked her basket on the scrubbed pine table.
"Sara!" she called. "I'm back. Where are you, Dear?"
A thud of footfalls on the stairs, and the eager face of Sara Immerglück appeared around the kitchen door.
"Here, Mrs Stewart! Let me help you put these things away."
"Nono! I can manage this," Geraldine smiled kindly. In two hours it would be dark, and she and Sara would be on the bus to Littlehampton, thence to catch the train to Hastings. "Sit yourself down here"—she patted the table—"and tell me what you and Iain have been up to while I was out hunting."
Sara's eyes lit up. "I have been Reverend Stewart's assistant with tomorrow's sermon."
Geraldine's stared at her. "Been his what, Dear?" A large bunch of carrots dangled mid-air from her fingers as she tried to make sense of the news.
"Oh yes, we have together made a good case for the eagerness to learn, and for joy and humility in our faith. It is the very best way to serve God. 'Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.'"
Incredulity tinged with irritation stole across Geraldine's face. "Sara, should you really be...?" She tutted, marched resolutely to the kitchen door (vegetables still in hand), and called sharply down the corridor, "Iain? Iain!"
Sensing discord in the making, Sara spoke in a small, calming voice. "Please—you mustn't worry, Mrs Stewart. God makes no distinction. The Reverend's sermon is like our..." Sara wrinkled her nose as the German word eluded her for a moment. "Our Predigt!"
Geraldine's voice rose in annoyance. "Is that what Iain told you when he taught you to..."
Her words trailed off as a scratching, scuttling noise coming from behind them diverted her attention.
"What on earth was that?"
Looking round, she determined that the source of noise was a very old cardboard box marked Bird's Custard Powder, sitting on the kitchen dresser. It was tied with string, and there were several small, haphazard holes bored through the top of it. Beside it lay a scribbled note in Iain's handwriting.
Gigi – Mouse in box.
She groaned. Ever impractical, Iain's latest habit had been to dispense with all traditional mousetraps, and deploy 'humane' non-fatal ones around the house. Whenever an interloper was caught, Geraldine was expected to dispose of the live rodent from whatever ad hoc receptacle Iain had chosen to confine the captive. The current prisoner appeared to be extremely lively.
A wave of indignation swelled in Geraldine. Was she to be wife, mother, cook, guardian of Sara's Jewishness and now mouse-monitor into the bargain? Irritably, she grabbed the box-with-mouse and stalked off down the hall to Iain's study.
"Why are you involving Sara in your sermon?" she inquired sharply. "And teaching her to quote Matthew?"
"Hmm? What, Dear?" Iain looked up from his manuscript. "Gigi, listen to this:" His finger traced along the page before him. "'To love and serve God as we should, and to the fullest, we must feel a newness that brings joy into our worship. For our joy in God is in the freshness of that spark. If we are tired, and uninspired in our lives, then our efforts become hollow actions, and devoid of love for God.'"
He looked up at his wife, eyes sparkling. "How does that sound? Hmm?"
Geraldine softened. "Very nice, my love. What are you up to with Sara?"
Iain raised a hand to shush her. "There's more. Listen. 'Those amongst us who are well-versed in our faith—conversant and complacent in its practice—lose our capacity to grow. Rich in knowledge though we be, the light of God, though bright, has no scope to grow brighter; for we pride ourselves that we know all of God there is to know. For those amongst us, Faith has no direction to progress, except to wane."
Geraldine's eyes began to fill.
"'Whereas, the fledglings and the novices amongst us, how much happier are they? For in their eagerness to learn and grow, they are inspired, excited and entirely passionate about their new-found faith. They celebrate God with the waxing joy of rebirth and renewal.'"
A sigh escaped his wife. "That's lovely. But it sounds a little... lunar, Dear. The waning and the waxing. Are you sure the imagery, beautiful though it is, won't be wasted on a rural community?"
"Ah, but I'm deliberately trying to incorporate the image of the lunar calendar! Don't you see?"
"Not really," admitted Geraldine. Movement inside the object she was carrying recalled her to her purpose. "Here. This is yours." She set down the holey box on top of his manuscript, and slid it across the page in front of him.
"Today is special," went on Iain, gently pushing the box aside to find his place again. "Today is Shabbat HaChodesh: the, ah..." he peered down through his spectacles and read out from an open book beside his sermon, "'sanctification of the new moon and a time for celebrating miracles'."
"Iain, try to make sense."
Her husband continued, unperturbed, "...and the first Sabbath of the Jewish year."
Geraldine blinked. "This is Jewish New Year?"
"Mmm. One of them, yes. There are several. But the teaching around this one is that we must re-dedicate ourselves to God, celebrate emergence from the darkness, be joyful in our faith, and in our freedom from oppression..."
"Does Sara know all this?" asked Geraldine. Bewilderment took over from annoyance.
"Nonono!" Her husband's tone was patient and unflustered. "I'm entirely sure she doesn't. Quite sure. But I wanted her to think about it, anyway—and that's why I asked her in to help me with my sermon."
Iain took up a pen and underlined a short passage in his manuscript, making a small note in the margin.
"Quoting Matthew though?" Geraldine looked sceptical. "Iain? Really?"
Reverend Stewart took a moment to examine his conscience. "Oh. Well, look, Dear... never mind. That just happened to be the first line that sprang out at me. If you insist, I'll find one from the Old Testament."
"I do insist."
After only a moment's thought, Iain brightened. "Not just one, but two! Psalm 51: 'Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. And 'Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.'"
He turned to Geraldine, quietly triumphant. "Satisfied? And I can think of others! Ezekiel: 'I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.'"
"Iain," said Geraldine, "you've made your point. But how do you plan on preaching this profound wisdom to a farming community?"
Iain waved his hand, "Oh the farming calendar is full of opportunities to celebrate growth and renewal. They'll know exactly what I mean."
Geraldine's hand screwed itself into a fist and found her hip. "Look. Growth and renewal perhaps, but... freedom from oppression? I hate to disappoint you, Dear, but none of us is free. And by the way, on that subject, in the pecking order of the subjugated, I am not your slave." She slid the box-with-mouse determinedly across the page in front of him again. "You caught the mouse, so you release it."
Iain fastened childlike eyes on hers.
"But... if I set it free here, my dear, it will only find its way back into the house. I thought... perhaps... since you were going to catch the bus... you'd take it with you and, er, let it out at the other end?"
"You want me to carry a mouse, in a box, on a bus, to Littlehampton?"
"Well, er, in fact, yes. It stuck me as quite a good idea..." Iain gave her one of his little-boy-enthusiastic grins.
She gaped at him, but her husband just smiled back at her expectantly, his lovely eyes drifting from her to the box and back again.
Resistance was pointless. Geraldine's annoyance dissolved. She moved behind her husband's chair and leant forwards over him, hanging her arms around his neck.
"We must be very godless, you and I," she offered, pressing her cheek into his, "stuck in our tired, old routines. We're waning, aren't we?"
Iain revolved in his swivel chair and pulled her onto his lap.
"On the contrary, my love," he patted her midriff and raised his finger instructionally, "we are in the process of creating something new. And as such, we are waxing full of The Holy Spirit, you and I."
"It's times like this," she held him by the ears and kissed his nose, "that remind me precisely why I married you."
Iain bounced her on his knee. "So. All mended, then? You'll let me know when you and Sara are about to leave? I'll walk with you to the bus stop? Carry the cases?"
Geraldine reached around him and scooped up the boxed mouse.
"They usually charge half-fare for pets," she sighed.
"You could"—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—"secrete the mouse about your person." He tugged the V-shaped neckline of her blouse with an exploratory finger.
...
Some strain had been anticipated on accommodation at 31 Steep Lane, what with Sam's mother and Sara being expected that weekend. However, the dilemma of where to sleep whom had been spontaneously averted on Friday evening, when Georgie Foyle arrived home to find a letter waiting. The squeaks of undisguised excitement coming from the hallway, followed by the thundering of footsteps up two flights of stairs, were quite sufficient for Sam and Foyle to deduce that the envelope contained her eagerly awaited visiting order from Andrew.
Shortly afterwards, a shouted conversation down the stairs to Sam (amid much banging round of furniture and cases) revealed that Georgie would be travelling up to Uxbridge on the train the following morning, and remain till Sunday evening—or Monday at a stretch, if Hastings Police could spare her. Andrew had been co-opted as a sort of aide-de-camp to Air Marshal Sir Arthur Coningham, and there were courtesy rooms available near HQ that served as temporary married quarters for staff whose wives were visiting.
It was half kindness toward his daughter-in-law, and half eagerness for an extra night alone with Sam, that set Foyle, tongue planted speculatively in his cheek, to phoning Milner for agreement to allow their driver Monday off.
Early Saturday morning, Mrs Foyle-the-Younger duly thumped downstairs, lugging an enormous case of clothing almost as large as she; and with a kiss from Sam, who'd dragged herself out of bed to see her off, Georgie disappeared into a taxi for the train station. This left Christopher and Sam blissfully alone for the remainder of the day, until quite late, when Geraldine and Sara Immerglück arrived in the reverse direction.
Sunday, 11th March, 1945
"Oh, yummy! Well, lucky me! And thank you, Sara." Sam kissed her young guest on the cheek. The girl flushed positively pink with pride.
"My foster-mother in East London taught me how to bake."
An open tin of appetising golden shortcake stood in the middle of the kitchen table as the three women looked on. Foyle smiled to himself and withdrew from the room.
"Sara has a wonderfully light touch," put in Geraldine. "You have no idea how useful she is around the kitchen."
Sam chuckled. "After all my baking disasters, I can imagine. But there's so much here! How on earth did you find all the ingredients?"
"Ah, well, Darling, you underestimate your popularity in the village. People have been so worried about you. Special prayers in church, of course, but the biscuits were Joyce's idea. Remembering your hearty appetite, she had a whip-round for rations, and Sara volunteered to throw them all together!"
"Oh, I did not throw them, Mrs Stewart. I was very, very careful."
Geraldine smiled knowingly across the table at her daughter. Sara's English was, for the most part, impeccable, but occasionally, irony or poetic licence escaped her.
"You certainly were, Sara." Geraldine squeezed the girl's hand. "See?" She pointed inside the tin for Sam to take a closer look. "The different shapes and patterns. Make your mouth water, don't they? And delicious. Oh my goodness, yes. I was allowed a little piece to try. And even Daddy's rodent was impressed."
"Daddy's what...?" Sam looked from her mother to Sara and back again.
"Long story, Darling. But a mouse your father caught rode with us to Littlehampton in a custard box. Sara dropped a morsel or two of shortcake inside, before we let it go, and instead of scurrying off completely, the little thing just sat against a wall and nibbled on the crumbs."
The ladies' giggles reached Foyle as he came up from the basement, carrying a very dusty 1938 Bordeaux.
"That reminds me," declared Sam, thoughts leaping from her father to the church, "we'll be going to the evening service, everyone. Oh, well, Sara—only if you want to come along and sing. But I hope you'll both chip in and help me with the food this morning, because John Anselm will be joining us for lunch!"
The name was spoken with a kind of reverence, and Geraldine clasped her daughter's arm across the table.
"I cannot wait to meet this man." She turned to Sara. "He's the man who saved Samantha's life!"
Out in the hall, Christopher's finger traced a melancholy line along the dusty bottle, his eyelids shuttering against the ache; but by the time he'd entered the kitchen, there were no traces of the earlier sadness on his face.
Some moments later, unobserved in the dining room as she and Christopher laid the table, Sam's tone to him was adamant. "Darling, I want to speak to our guest alone for a few moments after he arrives. So if you could show him to the sitting room, then make yourself scarce for a little while, I'll call you all in when we're finished."
"Your rules, Love," he answered quietly, and when he drew the cork out of the wine bottle, he felt a certain kinship with its need to breathe.
...
Seated across from John Anselm, Sam formulated how she might express her thanks, and found herself immensely moved to be in the company of the man who'd been her saviour.
For his part, Anselm fought to hide the full extent of his discomfort. Such meetings went against the grain for him. His sort of job didn't much involve analysis or thanks; either a thing was over, or it wasn't, in a kind of cut-and-thrust simplicity he'd come to relish and rely on. All the rest was baggage, wasn't it? Or so he'd always thought, until...
Now, though, as he looked across at Mrs Foyle, a woman of a similar age to him, but whose experience of life was wholly different, he found himself the focus of a stream of sombre gratitude he felt he hadn't merited. Words such as 'heroism', 'modesty', and 'courage' flew his way, delivered with such soulful gestures and expressions that he felt a proper fraud. His impetus to intervene that morning had been, baldly put, a seek/destroy reflex—the human angle really only settled on him afterwards, once he'd removed the threat. And though he now looked back on what he'd done with satisfaction and a modicum of pride, he nonetheless felt undeserving of the praise and thanks being offered him.
This realisation made him truly miserable in a way quite new to his experience. In fact, of late, a number of events had come together and conspired to make his life feel somehow "less". Throughout the war, he'd "functioned", and he'd steeled himself against emotion. Oh, he'd taken comfort, certainly—but of necessity, had attached himself to no one. Here, though, was a woman who was everything he would have wished for, had he only let his guard down long enough to open to the possibility. She was warm, and lovely, and devoted to her husband. And in no uncertain terms, she sat across from him and told him that she owed her life and her continued happiness to him.
"Look, Mrs Foyle..." he spread his hands in supplication, hoping she would stop.
"'Sam'. Please. After all that you've done."
"Look, Sam, it's not heroic. It's no more than any decent bloke would do."
"Yes, but it was your decency, John. And my life. There aren't enough words."
Anselm leant forward on his knees, and stretched a hand to shade his eyes, thumb anchored on his cheek. Sam read it as a gesture of embarrassment—as almost a desire to hide.
"I reckon you've seen more of that—of decency—at home than most women, Mrs Foyle." He said it, then he took away his hand and met her eyes, correcting himself. "Sam."
As Sam returned his gaze, she noticed for the first time a suppressed intensity in this laconic young man that reminded her of Christopher. His eyes a lighter blue than her husband's (except when the policeman in him seethed in quiet fury at some criminal)... giving them the slate-iness that might in normal circumstances make them appear cold. But behind Anselm's eyes at that moment, she read a warm acknowledgement that he had helped her—albeit veiled in an awkwardness at being thanked. It shone through…
"I happened to be there, that instant. And that's all."
She thought that his remark had closed the subject; then he puzzled her by adding, "What I will say, though, is: If you think you're lucky I was there, it seems to me your husband's twice as lucky."
Sam frowned a moment to unpick his meaning; then she realised he'd paid her an astounding compliment. She lowered her eyes. "I... ah... well, thanks. I hardly know what to say to that..."
"Best leave it, then." When Sam looked up, she saw that his eyes were smiling. "Yeah. It was a good morning's work. Let's leave it there."
And so, after something of an uncomfortable start, Sunday lunch became a thoroughly congenial occasion. Finding himself unaccountably tongue-tied in the company of his wife's rescuer, Foyle soon felt his awkwardness melt away under the joint charm-offensives of a brace of Stewart women.
Anselm, seated as he waited for his lunch, and thereby readily accessible to someone of Sam's mother's height, found himself embraced and kissed upon the cheek by Geraldine, and told he was a "treasure" and a "hero". Though Foyle's soft smile of approval at his mother-in-law's display was genuine, he was nonetheless relieved that Sam, although unstinting in her praise, held back from a similar expression of gratitude.
During their meal, and with a bit of probing, a few facts about Anselm's background were uncovered. He had grown up in South Derbyshire, where his father managed an abattoir, and had joined the army at the age of sixteen, after a spell at grammar school. "Got restless" was his only comment on his early bail-out from a decent education. Soon after war broke out, he'd volunteered for the commandos when the call for men to serve in special forces came from Churchill. No one asked the details of his missions, and he did not offer any. But he was ready enough to laugh at anecdotes across the table, and even told a couple of his own—although Foyle noted that they stemmed from the neutral ground of his childhood, rather than his military exploits.
Through it all, the eyes of Sara Immerglück were fixed upon their guest of honour with a mute variety of fascination. Anselm noticed her attention, smiled in passing, and continued interacting with the other adults. Finally, over pudding, he cast a purposeful look in her direction and hit her with, "Cat got your tongue?"
Sara nearly dropped her spoon into her custard. It was the first remark this steel-eyed giant had addressed to her since "How d'you do?", and indeed, if she were honest, she'd expected nothing further. The turn of phrase, though colloquial, was entirely familiar to Sara, however. Over the years she had heard the same idiom many times, from people who mistook her silence or her foreign-ness for shyness. Now she amazed the others at the table by answering with a poise beyond her years.
Her blink was both sage and bright-eyed. "The cat has not got my tongue. I was enjoying your conversation, but I found that I had nothing interesting to add."
Propping his elbow on the table, Foyle slid a hand across his mouth. In the space of an instant, his perception of Sara Immerglück altered from appreciation of a pleasant girl, into respect for a young woman. Raising an expectant eyebrow, he turned in his seat, the better to catch Anselm's return volley. Sam and her mother locked eyes and, in an unspoken pact of non-interference, mechanically shovelled spotted dick into their mouths. Well, wasn't this an interesting development?
Anselm loaded his spoon, fed himself unhurriedly, and swallowed. "Well, good for you. Lot to be said for that attitude," he added.
"Couldn't agree more," put in Foyle, smiling broadly at the young woman.
But Anselm wasn't leaving it there. "On the other hand," he challenged gently, "you might have something interesting of your own to say...?"
Warmed by the combined attentions of two personable men, under the safe eyes of two chaperones, Sara blossomed.
She brought her wrists to rest upon the table, and leaning forwards announced pertly to the assembled company, "Today, I am sixteen."
Geraldine and Sam let out small cries.
"Sara—why didn't you tell me?" protested Mrs Stewart. "I had no inkling that it was your birthday."
"How will you celebrate?" asked Anselm in a level tone, scrutinising the young woman's face.
"Celebrate?" Sara shrugged. "This is not something that I do."
"Too bad, that. We should think of something," countered Anselm, and went back to his pudding.
A few looks darted round the table. Finally, Sam broke the silence.
"Yes." She spoke deliberatively. "I rather think you should."
...
Replete with lunch, the men withdrew into the garden for a breath of air to aid digestion while the women cleared the table.
"Cigarette, Sir?"
Foyle shook his head. "Had no idea you smoked, John."
"Once in a while, you know."
Anselm lit up with practised ease and tossed the match into the border. The pungent smell of Gauloises filled the air around them.
"French?" Foyle's face evinced surprise.
"Yes. Present from a mate, just back from France." Anselm sized up his companion, and sensing no pressure to speak, decided, perversely, that he felt like talking.
"This... mate..." he began, "was out in Montargis in '41. He had to leave, though—reasonably sharpish, if you get my drift. Couple of weeks ago, business takes him back there on a flying visit, and he finds he's got a three-year-old. A daughter. Lovely little thing. Want to see a picture?"
Without waiting for assent from Foyle, he reached into his wallet and produced a two-inch snapshot of a laughing, blonde child in a puff-sleeved smock. He pushed the photograph at Foyle.
"Her mother's dead. Lives with her grandma. And they've called her Arabelle. You know what that means, Sir?"
"Ah... nno..." Foyle was unsure how to take Anselm's uncharacteristic expansiveness, but concluded it was politic to tag along, wherever the mood might take his guest.
"Answered prayer," came the reply. "I went to the library and looked it up."
Foyle wondered at the sentiment behind a man like Anselm who made special journeys to the public library to look up little girls' first names. He handed back the photograph.
"She's beautiful."
"Isn't she, though?" Anselm pocketed the picture and, squinting, took a drag. "You looking forward to yours?"
Foyle licked his lips. He knew he shouldn't be surprised. "You know, then?"
"Well, it... came up, didn't it? After the incident. And Miss Pierce mentioned something, too. Been a real trial for you, this, I should think."
"John... I..." the words wouldn't flow for a moment. Foyle pulled his gaze up from the black brick path and met the younger man's. With a slight bow to emphasise his words, he managed, "Always going to be in your debt for what you did that morning."
Anselm gestured towards the kitchen with his cigarette. "She's all right now, though, isn't she? Looks healthy enough."
Foyle found a fascination in the criss-cross pattern of the paving bricks. "Yep. Healing nicely, thank you, John."
Something about the older man's tone identified that as a partial answer. "You all right, yourself?" persisted Anselm.
Foyle gave a shrug of the mouth.
Anselm studied him, then sucked his teeth. "Can't be everywhere at once, you know, in life, Sir." He took a slow draw on his cigarette, then let the smoke out through his nostrils. "Can't be in charge all the time, either."
"Nup. S'pose not."
"We all help one another. If you weren't locking up the criminals on the Home Front, we'd have a sort of anarchy."
"True, but..."
"And you were onto him, weren't you? You'd've had him soon enough."
"Not quite soon enough, John."
Anselm took a final drag and flicked his fag end into the bushes.
"My mate..." he offered carefully, "... the little girl's dad... he couldn't be where he needed to be, either. Not for a long time. You might say he's got the chance to count his blessings now, though." He paused. "Why don't you just count yours?"
Foyle tugged at his ear, embarrassed to be taking lessons in philosophy from his former driver.
Anselm leant against the fence, and drew a line under the subject. "I helped. That's all," he shrugged.
"You helped, more than you'll ever know," said Foyle.
"Something else, Sir."
"Yes?"
"The girl, um, Sara. She's lost her parents—all her family—right?"
"Yep. Looks that way."
"I'd like to take her for a ride up the East Hill Cliff Railway. If she'll come. And 'suming that's all right with you."
...
"May I go, Mrs Stewart?"
"Well, yes, of course, Dear, if you'd like to." Geraldine glanced round at the others. "Perhaps we should all go?"
"No, Mummy, honestly, I don't feel up to it," Sam put in hastily. Then she addressed Anselm. "John, you really must take some of Sara's shortcake with you, to eat when you get up to the top."
Sara was already running up the stairs, calling, "Thank you, I should like to see a bit of Hastings! I will get my things."
Moments later she was hurtling back downstairs again, pinning on her extraordinary hat.
Waiting in the hallway with the paper bag that Sam had pressed into his hands, Anselm set his own hat on his head and assessed his young companion's millinery.
"Isn't that... confection... a bit old for you?"
Sara forged on past him, all business. "Please. I like the hat. And I shall grow older."
Reaching over her head, for he could easily do so, Anselm pulled the front door open. "After you, then, Miss." Sam fancied she could see him stifling a smile.
"See you back here in a couple of hours for tea," called Samantha.
Foyle came up behind her on the doorstep and gently ran his hands down her upper arms.
"What are you up to?" He brushed her ear with his lips. "Is it wise?"
"Don't know," replied Sam pensively. "It's just... I have a teensy feeling that they each need something that the other might be able to provide." She turned and gave her man a searching look. "Know she's young, but… were you 'wise' with Rosalind, d'you think?"
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
I'm about as religious as I am legal. So pardon me if Iain got it wrong.
dances thinks the lunar waxing/waning metaphor for faith is very 'New Age'. Well, it just goes to show there's nothing new upon this Earth...
…
The mouse story came from a former work colleague. But I have since learned that dancesabove does the same thing with her mice, and releases them down the road in nearby woods ;o) You BIG SOFTY, dances!
...
More soon.
GiuC