L'Aimant – Chapter 53
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 53: Georgie arrives home from visiting Andrew. Christopher turns a decade.
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:
dancesabove eagle-eyed this. If you find an adverb particularly well-chosen, then it's probably hers.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
Anselm studied the girl's profile. Long-lashed, verging on patrician in her features, her 'presence' struck him, though she was a little awkward in her dress—that bloody hat, too old for her, for starters. And Sara Immerglück had sized him up effectively; that much was a certainty.
"I'll help you find your brother, Sara. And regardless of what happens over Arabelle." Even if I have to make the trip and root him out myself.
"In that case, this," said Sara, softly, "is a birthday I can celebrate." She felt a gesture was appropriate, but couldn't quite decide what that should be. In the end she turned to John, offering him her hand, a little shyly, underneath a smile.
It made her, suddenly, a beauty in the mould of Claudie Simoneau.
Though aware that he was meant to shake the proffered hand, Anselm could no longer perceive this as just a business contract. Instead he turned her hand and took her fingers in his own, and squeezed them once... then let them go.
They lapsed into a comfortable quietude, and each, in their own separate ways, perceived the "otherness" they felt in life recede in the face of new-found and extraordinary kinship.
Chapter 53
Monday evening, 12th March, 1945
"When... are you going to... learn... to travel lighter?"
With gritted teeth, Foyle heaved the bulging suitcase up the front steps of 31 Steep Lane, and slid it gratefully along the strip of polished red floor tiles between the hall runner and the wall.
Outside on the pavement, the diminutive figure finished paying the taxi driver, and bent her knees to give a friendly, parting wave as he drove off. Then, still buoyant with her London memories, Georgie trotted up the front steps.
"Don't be hard on me, Christopher," she told him pertly. "There's nothing to be had in Hastings. Not a stitch. And I've been saving all my coupons for an age. Andrew took me into Town, and Swan & Edgar had such tempting things on sale..."
He waited patiently while she unpinned her hat, then lent a helping hand while Georgie shrugged out of her coat.
"How is my son, the squadron leader?"
"He's wonderful. Your son is wonderful," Georgie told the coat-rack with a dreamy sigh.
"Oh. That good? Pleased to hear it." Foyle reached past her to hook her forgotten coat onto the rack. "Any, um, actual news to share?"
Fortunately, Georgie had been saving all the safe titbits from her weekend for just such an occasion, so it didn't take much effort to haul herself back to the prosaic.
"Yes," she said emphatically. "Andrew told me to tell you… now then, let me get the story right... he put this rather well, actually. He said I was to tell you that 'the politics of desk flight are every bit as duck-and-dive as dodging Jerry in The Solent'."
Foyle's lips curved down in wry sympathy. Andrew had received his baptism into military internal politics.
"Can't say I'm surprised."
"And you'll never guess what!" Georgie's eyes were suddenly agog with the enthusiasm of recall.
"Don't s'pose I shall," he returned, obediently.
"I met Field Marshal Montgomery!"
Foyle's eyes widened in genuine surprise.
"Wull, good for you. Funny old stick, but wouldn't mind crossing his path myself."
"I don't think he has a lot of time for Andrew's boss," supplied Georgie, confidentially.
"Um. Why d'you say that?" The raised eyebrow invited detail.
"Because... you see, there was a small drinks reception at HQ—and the moment Andrew trotted off to get me a gin-and-it, Monty struts up with his swagger-stick under his arm and opens with..."—Georgie pulled her shoulders back and tucked in her chin—"'... I twust you find your husband happy in his work?' At first I thought, well, how sweet of him to ask. So I said something non-committal, like 'oh, he says he's settling in, thank you', because I didn't want to put my foot in it, you know..."
Foyle's tongue parked in his cheek.
"... then he gives me a terribly charming smile and carries on with, 'Squadwon Leader Foyle must be a fwightfully patient young man'. It seemed a peculiar thing to say, and I was puzzling over it until Andrew told me later that Monty and Air Vice Marshal Coningham actually detest each—"
"Um, best not tell me what he told you," corrected Foyle.
"Oh, well, you know..." Georgie fidgeted, chewing on a nail for a moment; then she brightened as she lit upon safe ground.
"Monty was slightly shy with me, I thought. But he has the most arresting grey-blue eyes."
Foyle grew aware that she was peering into his.
"Of course, he's quite short, too, just like..." Georgie made a deft recovery from her almost-false-step with a seamless "... he's awfully bright and seems terribly determined. Reminds me of you."
Foyle's face contorted in exaggerated patience. "Wull, thanks. I think."
"So. Did you miss me?" she put in hopefully.
Before he had the chance to give an answer, she darted in and pecked him on the cheek.
"Hardly dare say no, after that." He stuffed his hands into his trousers and rocked gently on his heels.
Georgie peered towards the stairs. "Are Mrs Stewart and Sara still here?"
"Nup, they left this morning."
"Mr Anselm came?"
Foyle sidestepped nimbly. "You can ask Sam all about it later."
There remained the suitcase to be dealt with. In the face of mild exasperation with her habits, Christopher found his normal chivalry deserting him. He nodded towards the bag.
"I've shifted hods of bricks that weighed less than that thing. Try dragging it upstairs, and you're going to give yourself a hernia."
Georgie glanced at the stairs, then at the case, doubtfully.
"Plus you'll make an awful racket, and Sam's having a lie-down," he added, his admonitory glance leaving no question of Sam being disturbed.
"Fine," Georgina sighed, and laid the case flat on the floor, kneeling beside it. "I'll unpack here, then."
When she snapped open the metal catches, the hard grey lid sprang up like a mediaeval assault catapult released from its restraining ropes. Behind her, Foyle's eyes rolled heavenward.
Unperturbed, Georgie reached inside and grabbed an armful of unmentionables. When she raised her eyes to see if he would offer help, she found him looking studiously the other way, hands still in pockets.
All right. I get your drift. This isn't your department. Georgie heaved a sigh and sank back on her haunches. All at once it struck her with a dismal clarity that the fun of the last few days was over, and she probably wouldn't be seeing Andrew again for months.
"Christopher?"
"What."
"Do you like spaniels?"
His eyes crept sideways. Of all the random ideas Georgie's mind could have spawned at this moment, this possibly ranked amongst the most bizarre.
"Spaniels." His tone was level. No inflection. Just the word. And nonetheless, a giveaway that she'd well and truly thrown him. Experience of Georgie in such moments had taught him to await a follow-up, and sure enough the chaser came with her next sentence.
"I met Rommel. He's adorable."
The remark washed over Foyle, as well it might have done, for he was totally at sea.
"Mwell," he offered diplomatically, "he's... been adorably dead for half a year? Um. Had his good points in his lifetime, though?"
Georgie gave him a patient look. "Monty's spaniel, Rommel, Christopher."
"Ahhh." Foyle landed on the shores of comprehension.
"Well, he was such a lively little bundle, I was wondering... do you think we might get one?"
A sudden surge of his imagination painted Foyle into a brief domestic scene where he was bending, slapping at his thigh and calling "Here, boy! Parkins!", to be greeted by the skittering of claws on tiles and then a gentle thwump of bounding silken paws along the hall.
Kits, cats, sacks and wives... His lip twitched at the image. Georgie was regarding him with an expectant smile, her cheeks dimpled winningly. Oh, it would take a hard man to refuse her anything.
"Er. Nnno."
Reinforced by a single nick of the head, his senior officer voice closed the subject and buried it under six feet of practicality.
But even as he patted down the earth atop his handiwork, disappointment wrote itself across the young woman's face, and threatened to reverse the victory. He closed an eye, and contemplated her.
"Bit more than the dog, isn't it?"
Georgie's eyes sank to the remaining pile of crumpled clothing in her case.
"I just miss..." she faltered. "Fed up with being... oh, never mind." She rose up with her load and made to shimmy past him, sideways-on. Foyle caught her elbow, and poured a patient gaze into her upturned face.
"C'mon, Love. Andrew won't be gone forever. Give it a few weeks, at least. Hmm?"
"I miss him, Christopher. And you and Sam would rather be alone."
"No. Rubbish," he almost-lied, propelling her gently down the hallway to the kitchen with an untypical stream of chatter. "Just... we've been up against it recently. But... dogs? Wait a little while, and then, if you still want one, and Sam's amenable... Only fair, considering she'll be the one at home with it all day..."
"I'll let you name it," Georgie bargained.
The fictional Parkins bounded back into Foyle's mind, all golden floppy ears and—by God, yes!—those spaniel Parkins eyes... Foyle grimaced. Not the best idea.
"Wwwhy don't we leave the naming up to you? Assuming things progress that far."
...
Saturday morning, 31st March, 1945
In the intervening weeks, the thought of turning a decade had gnawed at Foyle's gut. Now, on the morning of his fiftieth birthday, he lay in bed and contemplated once again the niggling truth that, though the number of years between himself and Sam would never actually change, this year the difference in their ages would scream an extra decade whenever it was spoken of or written down.
He watched the sun rise through a crack between the curtains. For the first time in over five years, he was no longer waking to the obsidian pall of the blackout. In recognition of the nation's growing confidence, regulations had recently been relaxed. Nazi Germany was definitely going under; it was merely a question of how soon. All over Britain the veil of war was lifting, and victory was known to be very near.
Sam stirred beside him with a small, contented sigh, and pushed her healed fingers sleepily into his own. As he closed his hand softly around hers, it occurred to Foyle that it was his choice how he felt about this birthday. He could elect to mope, or he could celebrate.
Warmed by that second, more agreeable, awakening, the newly-minted fifty-year-old climbed from his bed and drew back the curtains on a full-blown sunny day that wasn't just a feature of the weather. He stretched, invigorated. This decade, he resolved, would be the very best one of his life.
And so, for the first of what promised to be many times that day, his face broke into a broad smile.
...
"Not letting this weather go to waste. We're all going out for lunch," announced Foyle, beaming, over breakfast.
Sam paused mid-mouthful. It was a longer sentence than she generally got out of him this early in the day.
"Really? All of us?" Georgie looked up from her porridge in relief. Something about the cardboardy smell of it was less appetising than normal.
"Well, naturally, all of us." Christopher's hurt expression chided her for doubting it.
The cloud was temporary. Reverting to his cheery grin, he pushed back from the table and busied himself around the kitchen, inquiring for the comfort of his ladies—enough toast? tea? With tea-towel draped across his arm, he reminded Sam of the sommelier at The Royal V.
The Mrs Foyles swapped bemused looks and dug into their breakfasts.
Later that day, lunch having been consumed at a small hilltop hostelry blessed with pleasant views out to sea, Sam stood, arm threaded through her husband's, watching the sun dance on the surface of the water. His buoyancy, she noted, was still undiminished from this morning. On impulse, she detached herself and drew him round by the lapels to face her.
"Christopher," she scanned his face, touching one hand lightly to his chest, "what's gotten into you? You've been grinning like a fool all day."
Foyle's eyes drifted down to where her fingers rested above the vee of his waistcoat, and bestowed a melting smile.
"Mmmy birthday," he explained, with typical economy.
"Fully aware it's your birthday, Darling. And if I'm honest, that's why I'm asking." She plucked possessively at the shirt button hidden under his tie. The gesture pleaded for an explanation.
Foyle felt his insides flip. Her merest touch... He stayed her fingers.
"Best cut that out. Georgie will be back soon."
"We have a few minutes. She'll be repairing her makeup."
"And here I am, about to ruin yours..." He stole a quick kiss, then pulled back to inspect the damage to her lipstick. "Nnnup," he smirked. "Going to have to try harder," and leant in for a second go.
Sam's finger met his lips halfway and halted him.
"Why so happy, Christopher? I mean, I'm happy that you're happy, but... whenever I've mentioned celebrating, you've seemed so down about the prospect of your birthday. I've been worrying about today."
He took her hand and fed it round his waist underneath his jacket, casting a surreptitious eye towards the tavern door to check that they were still alone. "Thing is, I've worked out where I was going wrong with that attitude."
"You have?"
"Mmh. Every year of my forties crawled along under a cloud."
"Losing Rosalind."
"Yep. And then the war. And then... you, Sam."
She toyed gently with his melancholy, tugging at the buckle-strap of his waistcoat. "Me? Was I such a trial?"
Christopher regarded her from under lazy lids. "Well of course, you know you were the opposite."
Sam licked her lips. "Then why did you wait so long to tell me how you felt?"
"Habit." The smile faded, and his gaze grew distant.
She waited; hoped for more. It took him a few moments.
"I used to tell myself because I couldn't have, I didn't need. It's... what a man does, to stay in control. That, or lapse into bitterness. And then, well, the 'didn't need' changed into 'shouldn't have'. And there's your explanation."
Sam stroked his cheek. "My poor love. I'm immensely grateful that you broke your own rule—made a move. I'd begun to think you were too buttoned-up to let me in. It still frightens me to think what might have happened if you'd stayed the way you were. One only has to think of DCS Fielding."
Christopher loved her more than ever in that moment—that she could spare a thought for David Fielding, the man whose son had almost put her in the ground. His arms closed round her, and the devil with it, whether they were observed or not.
He shook his head. "His position was worse than mine, Sam. When you lose a wife to typhoid, the chapter's closed. You know it's over. But for Fielding, Connie was the living, breathing thing he couldn't have. The salt poured in a wound." Also, he thought darkly, Fielding might have had an inkling about his son. But Foyle was not about to reopen that Pandora's box.
"No, I was luckier in that regard," he concluded, simply.
Sam's anxious eyes searched his. "But now, I hope you've got the things you want? I know I have."
"Wull, I have... you." He slid a hand to rest upon her rounded midriff. "Both of you. And we have years ahead of us, God willing. Want this birthday to be... I don't know... a fresh beginning; draw a line under the unhappy years. Sam..." he held her close, "Samantha... thhank you for loving me."
"Oh, if you only knew how easy it's been."
"Mustn't take you for granted," he continued. "Mustn't drag you down with my brooding habits. Want you to go on loving me."
"Why on earth wouldn't I?"
It was written on her face. To Sam, love was a 'given'. He told her, "I still feel as though I need to change before you get fed up of me. Before I get too old to change." Because, he thought, age was a 'given'.
Sam's fingers found his chest again. "I want you to stay the same. There's nothing wrong with the man I fell in love with. You're the man you are because of what you've been through. I love every facet of your character, even this habit of quiet pain of yours. Point of fact," she added gaily, "I consider it my job to snap you out of it. And when you begin to get cheerful on your own, I start to worry, so… if you don't mind, Darling..."
"Hmmm?" As he waited for the rest, his face hovered between adoration and amusement.
"... just as soon as the novelty of cheerfulness has worn off, go back to being an emotional enigma, will you?"
Foyle's insides melted. "Oh, come here," he told her gruffly, and suddenly it seemed to him that he was kissing Sam for the first time again, sinking into her with all the wonder and the tickling nerves of a besotted brand-new lover, ripe with possibilities and hope and that unreasonable confidence that nothing else would ever matter like this feeling, and the person in your arms.
Sam dragged her eyelids open, and for an instant saw his darkened pupils. Then she closed her eyes again and gave herself up to the kiss.
"Of course," he joked, when finally they pulled apart, "age might have its little advantages."
"I've seen no disadvantages so far," she sighed contentedly.
"Ah. But, you know, things could change. Failing memory and such..."
"Don't be silly, Christopher. Your mind is razor sharp."
"But there might be unexpected benefits," he sent her a mischievous look, "when I'm in my dotage."
"How so?"
He lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. "Well, you know what they say about older men, don't you Sam? No sooner they've done a thing, it slips their mind... and so they, um, do it again. Makes them rather good... as lovers."
Sam gaped at him. This was turning out to be a most unusual day. "So what's your excuse at the moment, since you're definitely NOT in your dotage?"
"Hmm. S'pose it's inability to believe my luck. The choice is, either pinch myself each time I manage to make you happy, or else..."
She grinned back at him. "Have another go, just to be sure?"
"You understand me very well," he said.
...
Foyle stood, hands anchored in his trouser pockets, and witnessed what amounted to the changing of the guard. Just as Sam disappeared inside the tavern to powder her nose, Georgie emerged from a side door and made a beeline in his direction.
As she neared, though, it became apparent that she wasn't well. Her face was paler than he recalled from the meal, and there were beads of perspiration breaking on her brow.
"What's this?" He took her gently by the shoulders and scrutinised her face. "You look a little green about the gills. Something didn't agree with you?"
"I know," she said. "I feel distinctly off-colour. Wish I hadn't had the mussels. Did you have the mussels? No, you didn't, did you? You and Sam had the lemon sole. Oh, dear." She swallowed carefully and swayed a little. "Think I'd better find the powder room again. This isn't good..."
She lurched away a few steps, then halted, groping for the backrest of a wooden bench to steady herself. Foyle followed. By the time he reached her, she was angled slightly forwards at the waist and taking deep breaths through her nose.
"Georgie?" He moved to stand in front of her and coaxed her face up with a finger underneath her chin. "Shall I go and get a glass of water?"
She raised her face and peered at him through glassy eyes. Already it was too late, the moment that saliva started pooling in her mouth, but when her ears begin to prickle, things had gone beyond control. In the next instant, she deposited her lunch on Christopher, decorating his dark serge suit with half-digested mussels.
"Rrright," he said, glancing down at the interesting pattern on his tailoring. Without retreating, he took her by the chin, then, fishing his pocket handkerchief from his trousers, wiped her face.
"You finished?" he inquired.
Georgie nodded, watery-eyed with shock. He led her round the bench and sat her down, then plucked the blue silk hanky from his breast pocket, handing it over so that she could dab her eyes.
After a few moments she told him, "Christopher, you barely blinked. You'll make a lovely, patient father."
"Thanks." Inwardly, he calculated that this might be a cue for Andrew to learn parental patience as well.
At the door of the ladies' lavatory, Foyle handed Georgie across to Sam before taking himself away next door to clean off his suit as best he could.
A hat trick, he mused to himself as he dabbed at the fruits de mer garnish plastered down the front of his waistcoat. The Stewart/Foyles have scored three. Sam and Geraldine. Now Georgie. But at least, he reasoned, in his new resolve of thinking positive, it means we mightn't have to get a dog.
Sam joined him later in the bar, while Georgie sat outside in the fresh air with a large glass of soda water.
"Oh dear," she commiserated, sniffing at him briefly and wrinkling her nose. "I've just realised, this is your favourite suit."
"Nnnot anymore," he said. Leaning back into his seat, he took a philosophical sip of the precious single malt the landlord had dispensed him, out of pity. "How is she?"
"She'll be all right now. But she'd better not have mussels again. I think they disagree with her."
He snorted amiably. "Mussels. You reckon?"
Sam read his face and sank down next to him on the banquette.
"Whoops!" she patted his arm. "You think there's more to this than meets the eye, don't you?"
"Well… crossed my mind," his lip curved down, "whatever hit my suit was more a symptom than a cause. Had my suspicions."
"You'd be wrong. We talk about... things... and I happen to know she can't be. It's definitely the mussels," she added forcefully. Suddenly aware that the landlord had begun to scowl, Sam lowered her voice to repeat, "Her stomach mustn't be used to shellfish. Just one of those things. Let's summon a taxi. I don't think she's up to walking home."
"Oh, well," he swirled the whisky in the glass and knocked back the last mouthful, "if you say so."
"I most definitely do."
"Port and lemon?" he inquired.
"Mmm. Thanks."
He rose, and after making arrangements for a taxi with the landlord, handed Sam her drink and went outside to Georgie.
...
"How's the invalid?" A brief glance at her colour reassured him that she did, in fact, look better. Hitching up his trousers at the knees, he planted himself squarely beside her at a slight remove, and directed his gaze out to sea.
Georgie stared down at her lap. "I'm a bloody nuisance, aren't I?"
An arm crept round her shoulders. "It's an old family tradition. I've been sicked on by Andrew more times than I can remember."
"You're not upset?" the young woman looked at him hopefully.
"Mwell, nnobody notices what I wear, anyway."
"You're one of the best turned-out men I know!" Georgie's indignation was instant. "I always notice what you wear. Both you and Andrew are the all-time dapper gents."
He pouted comically at the compliment.
"We are?"
"Oh, I should say!"
She snuggled up against him, and he had to tuck his chin in so that he could focus on the top of her head.
When Sam emerged from the tavern, Georgie's shape was so diminished by her posture that the young woman's curls were barely visible above the line of Christopher's shoulder. To observe the figures settled on the bench outside, one would have said a father giving awkward comfort to a grown-up daughter. Sam lingered in the doorway, taking in the sight. This was a throwback to a simpler age—when daughters were a lot less worldly than this war had fashioned them. And though a paltry four years separated Georgie and Sam, the difference in her husband's treatment of his son's wife couldn't have been clearer. His posture as he sat was so unlike the usual informal, seated Christopher—wont to inhabit chairs like a relaxing potentate, legs crossed with languid ease, and always angled, half reclined, into the corner of the seat. Now, on the bench, his attitude was ramrod straight, face turned resolutely forwards, and the hand that rested on his daughter-in-law's arm gave the lightest pat; no hint of stroking.
Propriety. And yet his posture signalled clear affection. To witness interactions between Christopher and Georgie was, in many ways, an echo of the early times Sam had spent with him when he'd still been Mr Foyle: the times when she'd been so eager to impress him that it made her ache; the cheerful joshing of the back-and-forth between them as she'd tried to push, or influence, or wheedle, just to see how far he'd let her play him till he told her 'no'. In those days, they had never touched—not even briefly. Not until that day—the day he broke taboo and tumbled them into another way of being.
The difficulty with Georgina, coming to them as she did, not only as his driver, but also as a candidate for family, was that the touching taboo had to fall, or else, being the tactile person that she was, Georgie would have been offended. But any contact Christopher initiated—Sam had observed it many times—was careful, measured, tentative, restrained. Enough to reassure, but never lingering.
Observing the pair of them with warm solicitude, it dawned on Sam with utter confidence that her husband's unrestrained touch was reserved for her alone. Many wives, she reflected, couldn't say the same. A quiet gratitude swept over her as she approached the couple on the bench.
Christopher heard her footsteps on the gravel, and turned his head to smile a welcome. Man and wife exchanged a slow, complicit blink, then, with wordless ease, Sam settled herself against his other side and slid what she still thought of as her 'good' hand through the crook of his elbow.
"Stop buttering him up," she teased across her husband's chest, leaning round to Georgie. "He's already too particular about his appearance."
Georgie rested her chin on his lapel.
"Well, he usually smells better than this, but I can't complain, considering it's all my fault..."
"I think the answer to the problem will probably be baking soda sprinkled on the cloth."
"Mmm. I hope you're right. Let's try that when we get back. It looks as if the trousers aren't too badly stained..." Georgie poked a finger underneath the point of Christopher's waistcoat where it overhung his pleated trouser-front, and flicked up the material. "It's mostly his jacket and waistcoat."
Smartly, Foyle extracted his arm from round her shoulders and removed her hand.
"But the suit will need airing before we let him wear it again," put in Sam. "What do you think? Hang it in the shed after we've sponged it? My bike can live outside, now that the weather's better."
"Sounds like a sensible idea. You know, now that I've lost my lunch, I rather think I'm getting hungry again..."
Christopher leant back, closed his eyes and retired from the exchange. Sicked over, used as a pillow, fiddled with and fussed over. The vagaries of a fiftieth birthday.
He felt Georgina lift his arm, and acquiescing with a sigh, he let her feed it round her shoulders once again.
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
Field Marshal Sir Bernard Law Montgomery was given command of the Eighth Army in 1942. By all accounts he was a charismatic leader, but a difficult character. Churchill said of him: "Indomitable in retreat, invincible in advance, insufferable in victory." Monty became notorious for his insensitive style of communication and trenchant criticisms of others' command decisions, which put him at loggerheads with many of his peers. He was apparently so single-minded that he didn't care.
Already widowed by the time war broke out, Monty's military career was his life. He inspired great loyalty in his subordinates, which earned him the label of 'the soldier's general'. My father (WW2 Eighth Army) was certainly full of respect for him.
Though Monty didn't smoke, drink or womanise, he was very keen on a bet, and kept a book of personal wagers. One such gamble, on a victory in Tunisia (light-hearted on the part of the wagerer, but taken in deadly seriousness by Monty), won him the use of a B-17 Flying Fortress, complete with American crew, as his own personal plane.
Oh, and you've probably deduced from the dialogue that he couldn't say his r's. That interesting piece of info came directly from my dad.
…
More soon.
GiuC