L'Aimant – Chapter 58
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 58: Kiefer's back in town. There's a sweet interlude for Sam and Georgie. Griffiths' mother visits Foyle.
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:
Once again, I'd like to draw your attention to my short story On the Hook, accessible from my profile page. It's a prequel of sorts to L'Aimant, and Kiefer's in it, as is Joe Farnetti's reputation o).
…
Events from All Clear (S6E3) got cracked into a bowl and whisked up for this chapter. All the egg is there, just sort of scrambled. Can't make a canon omelette any other way.
...
Savoy Operas = Gilbert and Sullivan's comic operettas. Transatlantic readers know them well, but for my Iranian follower... :o) *waves*
...
dancesabove nursed me through this, and more.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
"Um. Major John Kiefer is in Hastings?"
Griffiths' eyes locked on the sheet of paper. "Not yet, as far as I'm aware. My understanding is he'll be here in a week to ten days, commitments allowing. Do I take it that you know him?"
"I do, indeed. He was stationed in this area for several months in 1942. Haven't seen him since. Hhhow... does he come to be on this committee?"
"I'm sorry, Mr Foyle. I have no idea. Is there a problem?"
"Nup. Not at all." Foyle caught Griffiths' wary look and defused it. "Got to know the man quite well while he was stationed here. Be vvvery good to see him again."
The cloud appeared to lift from Griffiths' face. "Ah. Quite so. Now then," he resumed, pencil poised over his diary, "when shall we say?"
Chapter 58
Saturday, 28th April, 1945
"Look—why don't you just give me the key, goddammit, and let me go to my room."
It took a beat or so before it registered with John Kiefer that the cranky, ornery guy shooting off his mouth was him. He raised a finger to his temple and pushed up his cap. What the Sam Hill was he doing venting at some hotel dame he didn't know from Eve?
"Hey," he tried a softer tone to square things with the now tight-lipped receptionist. "I'm sorry. I'm tired."
The girl donned her best professional stony face, painted on a smile that didn't reach her eyes, and handed him his key.
"Thank you," he met her gaze uneasily and hauled his canvas bag onto his shoulder. Darn it, she'd be entirely justified to take a verbal pop at him—he had it coming. Truth was, though, as the demon weariness suffused him yet again, he couldn't give a rat's ass one way or the other.
Just like he couldn't, most days—if you didn't count the rat whose ass he'd trailed right back to Hastings.
Inside his room, he dropped the heavy holdall, slumped exhausted into a tight, sateen-stripe antique that this Limey joint was trying to pass off as an easy-chair, and sardonically jettisoned his hat.
He rubbed a hand across his sagging features. So you made it, pal. Leastwise, your body did. And yeah, most times you have the good sense to damp down that 'edge' that starts to sour your manners around folks in company. You screwed up with the gal on the desk, but maybe—maybe with a few hours' shuteye, you can get that prickliness back under wraps.
He tried to settle in the chair, but found its rigid frame an unforgiving place to hunker down. He hauled himself up, tore his collar open and, still in his boots, collapsed on top of the bed without pushing off the eiderdown.
Two minutes later he was fast asleep, a string of clear saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth onto the chintz-frilled satin pillow.
...
"Ohmygoodness, Georgie! Come here now! Oh, lord!"
Sam stared in disbelieving joy: a whole, full box of Cadbury's chocolate nougats lay open on the kitchen table, the pristine, heavy tissue lining peeled back to reveal four serried ranks of smooth-topped, individual chocolates, each perfect, warm-brown oblong misted with a bloom of white.
She hadn't seen a box this swish since—well, the sheep's eyes. In fact, as Sam had pulled her 'find' from a long-unexplored recess of the cupboard, she'd been a little nervous about lifting the lid. Instead of which...
There was a joyful yap as Georgie scooped up Wommel from the living room and hurried in to see what all the fuss might be about. It took a mere two seconds for her salivary glands to start to weep. Speechless at first, she lowered herself, mesmerised, into a straight-backed chair across from Sam, and gawped.
The women's eyes met. Georgie found her voice.
"Dear heaven! Where did you find those?"
Sam swallowed, pointing mutely to the dresser cupboard. Eventually, she managed,
"At the back. They must've fallen down behind the larger cake tins... years ago. Since rationing, there hasn't been much opportunity for larger cakes. In any case, have you seen Christopher bake anything? He doesn't even care that much for chocolate. Perhaps they were a present, and he just... forgot about them."
Georgie's eyes sparkled.
"He doesn't care for chocolate, you say?"
Sam shook her head and grinned. Wommel's pink tongue made a play for Georgie's jaw, tail wagging furiously at her mistress' obvious excitement.
"Well, lucky us!" beamed Georgie, tickling the puppy's neck, "'cos I could murder one or two of those."
Sam lowered her nose to table-level and sniffed at Georgie's 'murder-victims' for any sign of obvious decay. She found none. They just smelt like Christmas used to smell, before the war.
"I don't suppose that white stuff matters. Much," she added dubiously.
"Oh, that," Georgina waved her hand in brief dismissal. "That's only cocoa butter rising to the surface. Might look peculiar, but it doesn't kill you."
She grinned. "I volunteer to test one out."
"For King and Country?"
"Mmm. Pro patria."
Depositing Wommel on the kitchen table, Georgie lowered her nose to the same level as Sam's and inhaled greedily. A definite, delightful whiff of Cadbury still lingered.
The puppy settled chin on paws and cocked an eyebrow at one mistress, then the other, imagining that this was going to be a sort of hunting game.
"So. Here goes nothing," announced Georgie. "Toodle-oo!"
An immaculately-polished thumb and fingernail (Jungle Red for Saturdays) plucked the first victim from its paper concertina nest and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes closed for a moment as the chocolate rose to body-temperature and melted.
"Pah-adise," she uttered, round the sweet explosion on her tongue.
Sam reached for one as well, but got her fingers tapped aside.
"Hang on a bit." Georgina stowed the chocolate in her cheek. "The test is still in progress. Can't be too careful, in your delicate condition."
"Delicate, my foot! Try ravenous." Sam took one look at Georgie's enraptured features, and turned to Wommel for support. "She looks healthy enough, chewing that, doesn't she, girl?"
The thud of puppytail on scrubbed pine was sufficient answer, and the mistress of the house claimed her own chocolate, and then fed one to the dog.
"Should puppies eat tha' sort of thing?" wondered Georgie, chewing joyfully.
Sam halted mid-chew. "Isn't chocolate good for everybody?"
Georgie shrugged. They both scrutinised the puppy for a moment.
"Oh, well, best be on the safe side, then..." Sam began to prise the half-chewed chocolate from Wommel's jaws, to a few good-natured growly-noises.
"Now you've wasted one," observed Georgie.
"Oh, I don't know." Sam held the mangled lump up to the light. "If we ran it under the tap a bit..."
Wommel whined. With a whispered, "Come on, girl, we'll sort you out," Georgie scooped her up and disappeared in search of dog biscuits.
"You know what I think?" reasoned Sam around a mouthful. "I think when Christopher gets back, I'll tell him that I found this lovely chocolate box, and saved it for his fishing flies. That way, he gets a share in all of this. We'll save the paper cases, too."
"Sounds fair," called Georgie from the pantry.
...
John Kiefer flailed in panic through the chest-high, inky nightmare ocean that revisited him every night. The horror was no less acute this time; he ploughed desperately through the floating corpses, casting round for one—just one life he could save. The young men's bodies buffeted against his own—dead weights buoyed by the heaving waves. But every kid he turned face-up stared sightless and unblinking into the night sky. The coldness of the water was as nothing next to the sheer icy dread that froze his blood.
No funerals. No next of kin. No nothin', Major. Nothing ever happened here!
Kiefer sat bolt upright, gulping air into his lungs with the frantic greed of a man surfacing from an enforced spell underwater. He ran a trembling hand around his neck and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the images to fade. Sweat dripped down from his hairline into the sodden collar of his shirt. Mechanically, he wiped a wet palm on his tunic, steeling his jaw to quash a whimper.
Stunned and glassy-eyed, he waited, sucking air between clenched teeth until his breathing calmed. When finally he dared trust his legs to carry him, he swung them from the bed, and stumbled over to his bag. Delving inside, his hand closed round a whiskey bottle. There was a reassuring tell-tale clink, reminding him that this was not his only one. No, Sir!
He liberated the half-empty quart of JD and unscrewed the short cap with his teeth. For a moment he was tempted to spit out the cap and swig straight from the bottle, but the face that swam before him now was Carrie's. And the question jabbing at his brain was, Would she recognise the man she'd married all those years ago?
He should've stowed the bottle back inside his bag right then, but fading memories of a gentle wife back home in Worcester County, whom he hadn't seen in over three years, were too dim to kill this need—a need born the same night he'd left his better self behind on Slapton Sands. The need for sweet oblivion.
He cursed, and sweeping up the crystal tumbler from the bedside table, poured himself a triple slug.
A long deep swig burnt into the soft tissues of his throat. The spreading warmth took the edge off his anxiety, but didn't calm his racing brain. He downed the rest in one; then, in the bathroom with the door ajar, he splashed his face with water, dried it on the hand towel, and glared balefully at his pale reflection in the mirror.
You need fresh air, Mac, and a dose of self-control. That means, you get your ass out there and face the bastard sea.
Kiefer was relieved to see the woman on reception occupied with other guests. It saved him from having to apologise properly. He quit the hotel lobby at a clip, and only when he'd reached the seafront did he slow his pace. The onshore wind was picking up, and threatening to lose him his hat, so he tore it off and tucked it down inside his tunic; then he bent his steps in the direction of the Old Town.
The groyne at Rock-a-Nore was free of people. In this stiff breeze, not a single Hastings resident had felt the urge to wander out along the block-built promontory across the swirling water. But this was what he needed. This. This battering communion with the element that had claimed his brother's soul in '41, and borne the bodies of the kids he'd hauled back to the beach at Slapton Sands.
The white-tipped swell of water rolled onshore as he stood gazing off toward the sudden upsweep of the cliff. Above his head, a bank of seabirds glided overhead, swooping and plummeting in a cacophony of plaintive cries. Along both sides of the groyne ran a jointed pipe-rail, and reaching the end of the sea-wall, Kiefer grasped the smooth round metal with both hands, stepping back a pace to duck his head between his straightened arms. Yeah, this was what he needed. Out here, in the crash of waves and screaming gulls, where he could vent his rage against the rank incompetence that turned his band of men, and almost a thousand others, into sitting targets for the German navy. And then, the shabby treatment of their families: no obsequies; no relatives informed; a cynical suppression of the facts. It rankled. Jesus Holy Christ, it made him seethe. And he was gonna settle things before he left town. Major Griffiths hadn't heard the last of Slapton Sands.
He stared under the railing at the churning waters. Kids. Just kids. So many of 'em younger even than the brother he had lost to a torpedo on the Reuben James; all cheated of a fighting chance to see their homes and families again because of some pen-pusher's addle-brained incompetence—he'd see to it he got a damn admission from that desk-bound jerk before he shipped home.
Invalided out and running Victory Day pow-wows? Call that justice?
"Goddam closed ranks! Goddam cover-up!"
John Kiefer spat the words into the sea, which swallowed them and boiled around his feet. He straightened, walked on to the far end of the groyne. There he leant against the rail, back to the wind, and with some difficulty, lit a Lucky. Once again, he turned, and elbows resting on the peeling paintwork of the rail, he took a long, deep, greedy, brooding drag, then flicked the ash into the ocean… where the ashen faces of the dead stared back at him.
Some thirty yards along the seafront, a low-slung Riley pulled in at the kerb. The passenger door opened, and Foyle alighted, ducking back in through the rear door to retrieved his golf clubs from the back seat. He rapped the canvas roof and stepped back from the car, raising a hand.
"Thanks, Hugh. See you Monday."
Hugh Reid swore quietly and leaned across the cabin to peer up at him through the open window.
"Wish you'd bloody stop that habit. It's a soft top, man. If it breaks, I'll never get another."
"Mea culpa. Sorry," Christopher grinned in at his friend, then stepped back, adding sotto voce, 'Sorry that I won'.
The car pulled out and moved off along East Parade. Foyle watched it go, over a broadening smile, then he swung his clubs over his shoulder, and on an impulse, sauntered down the shale beach, glancing westwards. Hastings Pier had recently sprung back to life, attracting eager visitors again, and Foyle was contemplating taking Sam along there for an evening stroll.
Closer to the water's edge, he bent his gaze in the opposite direction, only to observe a solitary figure standing on the promontory at Rock-a-Nore. Foyle squinted. The cut and colour of the uniform told him it was an American. Lifting a hand, he shaded his eyes against the glare.
Not just any American, though. The square physique; the solid, slightly hunch-shouldered stance; the still—Foyle smiled at his own envy—generous head of wavy, light brown hair... John Kiefer!
There was no mistaking Kiefer. Nor—Foyle chewed his lip—the duty that devolved to him to keep under the cloak of secrecy the matter that Miss Pierce had given over into his hands. But this was not police work, nor was it yet a matter for the denizens of Whitehall—though Foyle was in no doubt that it would veer in that direction, if he didn't manage things with kid gloves.
He frowned down at his feet, wondering whether he was equal to the task of saving a man from himself. Unusually, he felt this man entirely worth the effort.
...
"John?" Foyle's greeting could be forgiven for its hint of breathlessness. The distance along the beach and up onto the groyne was not great, but his brisk pace, coupled with the burden of his golf clubs and the dragging of the shale against his feet, had made things arduous.
The American's head snapped round, part-way through his second cigarette, chain-lit from the first. Quarrelsome seagulls and the hiss of waves had covered up the sound of approaching footsteps, catching Kiefer unawares.
"Christopher?" The tension in his features melted, as did the almost three-year hiatus since they'd last laid eyes on each other. He let the cigarette drop, unfinished, into the grey water and closed the remaining gap between them, reaching out his hand to Foyle, who clasped it firmly in his own.
"What're you doin' here?"
"Wull, I live here," grinned Foyle. "Won't ask the same of you. Already heard that you were coming. And the reason why."
Kiefer's smile didn't so much falter as freeze.
"News travels fast. You have your spies out, Christopher?"
There was a sharpness in the tone, but it was slight enough to pass for—and be taken as—a jocular remark.
"Nnnot the way it was, at all," Foyle countered evenly. "I'm on the Victory Day Committee. So are yyou," he smiled, "as I was pleasantly surprised to learn."
So that was what he'd meant. The tightly wound spring inside Kiefer's gut relaxed a coil or two.
Foyle turned his hands palm upwards, pushing down his lip. "Just didn't expect you for a few days yet. Committee doesn't meet till Wednesday, after all."
"Yeah." Kiefer stretched a leg and ground the heel of his boot into the cross-scored concrete. "Got some business to wind up at the base, and then I'm killin' time till I ship out"
"I see." Foyle stretched his eyes. "At Hawthorn Hill?"
Kiefer gave a nod.
"Right, well, bit of a breeze out here, eh? And the sun's well over the yard-arm." Foyle jerked his head in the direction of East Beach Street. "Join me for a drink?"
Kiefer cast a doubtful glance from Christopher's heavy bag of golf clubs to the low-doored, small-windowed inn, and back again. "You reckon you're gonna fit inside that Munchkin place with this amount of ironmongery?"
Foyle's lip curled up. "Not an issue. Leave the clubs outside, if necessary. 'Course you're gonna tell me your clubs are tournament-standard, streamlined, telescopic, lightweight—"
"Do I detect a note of bitterness, Christopher?"
"Nnnot in the slightest." Foyle sent him a skewed grin and cast a glance towards the pub. "C'mon. It's pretty brisk out here. Might catch your death."
"No kidding," offered Kiefer, grimly, and jammed his cap firmly back on his head.
They sauntered back along the groyne and crossed behind the seafront-facing buildings into East Street, behind Neil's Café. There, they ducked inside the inn on a small square, and settled themselves into a corner over a pint of beer.
"Been stationed far from Hastings?"
"Devon."
"Quite a jump from there to here. For a committee."
"What of it? Told you I was killin' time."
Foyle took a sip of beer and licked the froth off his top lip. "Simple observation. Ssstill a free country, last time I looked."
"Free at a price," snorted Kiefer. Foyle's gaze latched keenly onto him, and he sensed he might have gone too far, so he softened the remark with, "Fightin' for the right to drink warm beer. Pretty crazy."
"Wull, I'd say it was essential." Foyle's eyes twinkled.
They sat a while in silence; then Foyle reopened with, "Tomorrow. Come up to the house for Sunday lunch."
Kiefer looked into his pint. "No, thank you, Christopher. Got stuff I need to do."
"If it's the prospect of my cooking frightening you off," observed Foyle slyly, "combined efforts of my, um, daughter-in-law and wife should sort you out."
Kiefer's eyes snapped up.
"Plenty happened in your life since I left Hastings, huh? So who'd'ya marry? Your Miss Stooerrt?"
Foyle cocked his head. Kiefer's deduction was a fair one, given the tenor of their Sam-centred discussions one cordial evening in '42, before the man's next posting had interrupted their friendship.
"Um, matter of fact..."
"Well. How about them apples? Glad to've been of service." Kiefer slapped his knee and settled back into his seat. He turned to gaze through the pub window, letting his eyes drift out to sea and out of focus.
Foyle frowned, reliving aspects of their conversation three years before. He raised an eyebrow, and stood his beer mug resolutely on the table.
"Farnetti never did have syphilis, did he, John?"
"Hell, no." Kiefer took a solemn swig of beer. "The kid was clean. I doubt he even got it wet. Talked sass in public, drank his milk in private. No luck persuading women, I could see. Zip. Came to think his standard-issue prophylactic was for keepin' dry his pistol in a rainstorm." And mebbe Joe Farnetti had some sense: it sure knew how to rain in England.
He let out a long breath. But there were times when no precaution fit the bill—when nothing kept your head above the waterline, and then your ammunition could go hang, for all the difference it made. Farnetti, Joseph F., Private, First Class. Killed in action, Slapton Sands, 4/28/44. God rest his virgin soul. God help us all.
Sunk in his own memories, oblivious to the darkening thoughts of his companion, Foyle felt the corner of his mouth tug up into a wistful smile.
"Was I that obvious around her?"
Kiefer shrugged. "Don't go all bashful on me, Christopher. Let's just say, I was watching close. Guess you and Miss Stooart caught my special interest." He raised his glass. Back in the day. When I believed in rewards for the honourable.
"Come to the house," Foyle pressed. "You started the ball rolling for us."
"You mean, step up and take responsibility?" There was a hard edge to his tone.
"Yyyour words, not mine. But wouldn't argue with you if you felt you were entitled to some credit." Foyle's voice was affable, unchallenging; but he was met with silence.
"Wull, aren't you curious?" he tried after a moment.
"No, thank you, buddy. My respects to Mrs Foyle, but gonna pass this time."
Foyle made a token 'please-yourself' moue, then took a slow draught of his beer and waited for a cue from however his companion's mood might settle.
Kiefer leant forwards, elbows on knees, and stared intently into the glass he cradled now between his hands. His tongue flicked up to lick his lips, and for a fleeting moment, Foyle imagined that the veil might be about to lift.
But the moment passed. And Kiefer's solid form, so close that Foyle could have reached out an arm and touched his shoulder, stayed as distant as the Devon sands disaster that had brought him back to Hastings.
Back into my ambit, Foyle reflected ...and my care. No crime had been committed. Yet. But for some reason, Pierce had placed this in his lap. She trusted his discretion, and held the expectation that he'd deal with this outside of his professional capacity. For that reason, and perhaps more powerful reasons of his own, he couldn't let go of this chance to renew and rebuild their friendship.
"Imagine you'll be here all week for the committee?" he asked.
A closed-eyed nod from Kiefer signalled yes.
"In that case, nothing's lost. There'll be other days."
Not for every soldier, Kiefer thought, and said, "Sure, Christopher."
Foyle squinted at him, sensing the despondency behind his words.
"Hostilities are all but over, John."
"Yeah." The words were barely audible. "All but."
...
Tuesday 1st May, 1945
The bulletin from Berlin put a spring in everybody's step; but by Tuesday afternoon the initial euphoria around Hitler's death had already faded. Paul remarked to Edie, on their way in to the doctor's, that as deaths went, it was more a whimper than a bang—though reports about the state of Hitler's half-burned body had made it clear there'd been a bang of some variety involved.
Lots of people, observed Edie, half-regretted he was dead, because they'd secretly fancied being the one to put a bullet in him. And for a man who'd cheated death on numerous occasions, he'd proved disappointingly killable when the chips were down.
"Still," she remarked, patting her belly as she swayed along the pavement hanging onto Paul's arm, "at least young Winston will be born into a world without war."
Winston. One side of Paul's face winced. It was the side away from Edie.
"We're still... talking about the name, aren't we?" he ventured.
"Are we?" Disappointment painted itself across Edie's features.
"Or p'raps not," Paul squeezed her hand. "Let me get a bit more used to the idea. Sure it will be fine."
...
Eunice Griffiths entered Hastings Police Station, and presented herself at the front desk with the calm but determined demeanour of a woman schooled in juggling puzzlement and patience. Before her, both hands clutched a battered crocodile handbag. Clamped behind that in her vice-like grip was a brown foolscap envelope. All of this arrangement she plonked unceremoniously in front of Brooke, and fixed him with a firm, no-nonsense stare.
"I'd like to speak to DCS Foyle, please, Sergeant."
"Could you give me an idea what it's about, Madam?" Brooke resisted the temptation to call her 'Love', though privately, he thought she looked as if she needed some.
"I... can't discuss it here. I need to speak to Mr Foyle directly."
Brooke sucked his bottom teeth and took a liberal moment to assess whether he had a fusspot troublemaker on his turf. The woman's brows peaked in a kind of supplication, and her hands, though rock-hard steady in their grip upon the handbag, had a whiteness at the knuckles indicating that her nerves were wound around the bag's frame just as tightly as her fingers.
"'Fraid you'll have to try, Love," Brooke tried the soft approach after all. "You wouldn't expect to turn up at the palace and be shown into the throne room without some explaining to the guard, now would ya?"
"Mrs... Griffiths?" The door into the corridor opened and Foyle's voice preceded him into the foyer.
"Mr Foyle!" Eunice wheeled around. "Oh, thank goodness!"
Griffiths, then, was it? Brooke recalled the nervous-looking suited bloke he'd shown into the boss's office just a week ago. This one looked a fair bet to be the bloke's mother, and that catch in her voice showed that Mr Foyle's arrival had knocked a dent in her stiff upper lip, all right. Even as he made the name-connection in his mind, Brooke saw the blood drain from the woman's features. When the old girl looked as if she was about to come over all unnecessary on his patch, he leant across the desk and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"Just have a seat, Love," Brookie told her kindly, glancing towards Foyle.
The boss's face was all concern.
"All right, Brooke. I'll take care of this." Cupping one palm under Mrs Griffiths' elbow, Foyle mimicked the tilt of a teacup to his sergeant with his free hand.
"Sir!" acknowledged Brooke, and watched as the DCS steered the unsteady woman through the dividing doors and off towards his office.
Once they'd disappeared, he turned to Davis with an air of resignation.
"Sometimes I think we run a ruddy tea-shop as a sideline here, Eddie. I mean, 'aven't they got the Sally Army or the WVS for watering the waifs and strays?"
...
"My son... has not been himself, Mr Foyle." Mrs Griffiths dabbed at her lips with a flimsy lace hanky. "I realise full well that this is not your job, but since we spoke last week, I wondered whether... hoped you might be able to help."
"Well, if I can."
Foyle tilted his head, and sent her a warm squint of encouragement. It was no great surprise to him that she had brought him her concerns, when he considered that his visit to the Griffiths home the previous Thursday had begun, bizarrely, with a trip down memory lane.
As Mark Griffiths had tried to usher his guest through the vestibule into his mother's front room, Eunice had interposed herself:
"Mr... Foyle, is it, my son has told me? I wonder if, by any chance, you were a relative of Rosalind?"
"By every chance, Mrs Griffiths. You knew my wife?"
"Oh, good Lord! My dear man, yes! Delightful girl. And my sincere condolences. How are you?"
The woman appeared stricken. Awkwardly, Foyle wondered whether the shock of making the connection had caused her to forget that Rosalind had been gone for more than a dozen years. With almost shamefaced cheerfulness, he was obliged to share the news of his remarriage.
Eunice Griffiths brightened at the 'splendid news', and laid a hand upon his sleeve. "So good to hear," she sighed, then added, sadly, "but we had such jolly times backstage on Pirates, your late wife and I."
Rosalind, as it happened, had always had a weakness for the Savoy operas, and so it emerged that Eunice, being a stalwart of the local G&S, had made a friend of Rosalind when she had helped with costumes for The Pirates of Penzance.
Mark Griffiths hovered, sensing his mother's fresh determination to reminisce, plucked at his tie in nervous irritation.
"Mother, we really must get on..."
"Really, Mark. Five minutes to remember a girl I held in affection? Run along and fetch the sandwiches. I shan't disturb your business after that."
The son dismissed, Foyle was shown to a padded bench seat in the window bay of a high-ceilinged front room. Mrs Griffiths lowered herself beside him, and they built a swift but warm acquaintance round an anecdote of Eunice's involving Rosalind, the gentlemen's chorus from The Pirates of Penzance, and some controversial footwear.
"You mean she never told you?" Eunice seemed genuinely surprised.
Foyle shook his head and smiled back fondly. If there was one thing he regretted, it was how the raw demands of work and building a career had kept him separate from Rosalind's extra-mural interests.
"Well, then, you might enjoy this." Eunice's eyes crinkled as she leaned in and rested a hand once more on Foyle's arm.
"The plot of Pirates calls for our buccaneers to creep in and wreak terrible revenge on Major-General Stanley. Naturally, they're required to sing their way on stage. Now, the lyrics—With cat-like tread upon our prey we steal—might lead you to expect a quiet rendition of the song, but the composer makes a little joke, you see. He writes the musical direction as a resounding fortissimo." Eunice paused to gauge effect. "Are you musical, Mr Foyle?"
Foyle gave a twist of the lips. "Nnnot a total Philistine. Tend to listen, mostly. Sing occasionally in the bath, and, um, move my mouth to hymns in church," he added drily.
"Ah." Eunice tried to fathom where this left them, then continued undeterred. "Fortissimo, of course, already makes a clamorous statement, but Rosalind, mischievous girl, saw another opportunity to get the most out of the comic opportunity—this time with the policemen's chorus. Are you familiar with the sergeant's aria, 'When a felon's not engaged in his employment'?"
Foyle grinned. Along with The Laughing Policeman, and The Beaux Gendarmes, that song of Gilbert's had long since stood in mockery of the Force. "A policeman's lot is not a happy one, Mrs Griffiths?"
"Yes! Yes, indeed!" Eunice' face spelled delight. "Rosalind came up with the idea of putting all the uniformed police in hobnail boots, and having them tap-dance heavily around the fountain as they sang that very refrain!"
Foyle's mouth turned down in soft amusement as he conjured the effect on stage—and off. Rosalind had always had a wicked sense of humour, and been apt to cry with laughter over things that entertained her.
"She told me that her husband would approve, because—" Eunice tilted her head to impart the confidence, "now you'll appreciate, Mr Foyle, that she didn't shout this round the company, although she shared the thought with me in private..."
"Go on," said Foyle.
"She said you would approve, because you'd quit your uniform with no regrets, and every brush you had with uniform..."
"...left me feeling trampled on?" Foyle finished for her.
"Ah! So you remember telling her?" Eunice chuckled.
"'Deed I do," admitted Foyle. His thoughts turned to the three ACs whose peccadilloes he'd endured these last five years, and his eyes slid sideways in a shrug of sufferance. "Nnno recent reason to revise that old opinion, either."
Eunice's delighted laughter was still filling the room, when her son reappeared bearing a plate of sandwiches, his long face effectively bringing their tête-à-tête to an end.
Now, less than a week on, Foyle and Mrs Griffiths were renewing their acquaintance—but this time there was only worry in the mother's face.
Eunice took a deep breath. "I fear my son is turning in upon himself. Since he was sent home, he's been sullen, distant, and preoccupied. And I ask myself what purpose has been served if, when they come home, Mr Foyle, their minds are still at war, making them strangers to their family."
Foyle listened in silent sympathy.
"Bad memories are par for the course," she looked up at him, "but there's something going on now that he won't talk about. I've felt it all along. Now this..."
She brought up the foolscap envelope, and pulled out a printed page torn from a magazine. A picture of a tiger dominated what, on closer inspection, turned out to be the front cover of Picture Post.
"My son found this," she handed it to Foyle, "drawing-pinned to the front door last evening. I thought at first it was a prank, but Mark's reaction told me it meant more to him than he was going to admit to. I'm very much afraid he's being bullied, Mr Foyle." Her eyes were pleading. "Perhaps you think that I'm ridiculous? One silly magazine page. But I saw his face. And he won't talk to me about it."
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Foyle answered "Come!", and Constable Davis brought in the tray of tea.
"Mmmay I keep this?" Foyle smoothed the page flat on his desk.
Eunice nodded, and took the cup handed her by Davis. "Thank you, Constable."
"You got sugar if you want it." Eddie gingerly extended a forefinger and pushed the sparsely-filled bowl towards her on the tray, then lingered awkwardly for a signal from his boss that he was finished with.
Foyle gave him a friendly nod of dismissal.
Eunice took a grateful sip of tea. "And then, of course," she added haltingly, "there was the sand."
"The... uh?" Foyle canted his head.
"Sand. In this." Mrs Griffiths proffered a small white envelope from the larger foolscap. "Pushed through the letterbox on Sunday evening. It was full of sand. Bizarre in the extreme! But more bizarre: my son's reaction. I actually thought that he would cry."
Foyle blinked steadily, taking the item from her hand.
"Llleave this with me, Mrs Griffiths. Don't concern yourself for now."
...
It was around half past six when an insistent rat-tat-tat at the front door brought Georgie from the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. Foyle, in shirtsleeves, simultaneously exited the living room.
Christopher reached the door first and opened it.
Six months had changed little in the rumple-socked appearance of the small boy who stood grinning on his doorstep, except, Foyle noticed, that his shorts were patched.
"Mister Foyle? It's good news, ain't it? 'Itler being dead?"
Foyle's eyes creased in amusement.
"Couldn't disagree there, Charlie. Arthur?" He nodded a smile to the older boy at the foot of the front steps. "Back again?"
Arthur was standing behind a different old perambulator parked on the pavement—somewhat smarter than their last affair. Inside it lay the straw-stuffed effigy that Foyle had first been introduced to last November. The Hitler guy had been spruced up a bit, in khaki shirt, green tie, and a red paper armband with an oddly-backwards swastika drawn in black ink on a white cardboard disk.
"Well, you've been busy." Foyle gave an upside-down smile of approval. "Time to burn him, is it? You've been collecting long enough?"
"They poured petrol on old 'Itler's body, Mister Foyle. We wanna do the same to this old boy 'ere. Can we 'ave some petrol out the Wool-sey?" Charlie's eyes were wide with hope.
"No, you jolly well can't!" came a voice from behind.
Georgie stepped up to the front door. "And if I find my petrol has been interfered with, you will feel my hard hand on your bottom, young man."
Charlie stuck his lip out.
"Not your car. It's Mr Foyle's."
Georgie's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "Ooh, you cheeky little—"
Foyle's hand darted out across the open doorway, barring his daughter-in-law's lunge to box the boy's ears. Behind her there was a skittering of claws along the hallway, and a yap.
"Rrright," warned Foyle, stretching his eyes at the youngster. "I'm hoping not to see the next war starting on my doorstep when the current one's not over yet. So, less lip round your elders, young man."
Charlie stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Sorry."
"Now then," Foyle gave the child a grave look that encompassed his brother, "you and Arthur, but especially you, Charles, have a very smartly turned-out guy there."
The boy beamed proudly up at him.
"If I were you," he lowered his arm with a quick glance to check that Georgie's temper had subsided, "I would be saving him for Victory Day, when everybody can appreciate the sight of Hitler burning. And if I have a word with Mr Roberts of the AFS, there might—just might—be fireworks. And a bit of petrol. Under supervision."
He had Arthur's full attention as he spoke, but Charlie's eyes had drifted downwards to the gap between his feet, where Wommel's honey-coloured muzzle poked into the open air.
"Cor!" he knelt to stroke the puppy, looking up at Foyle. "'E's wizard! Is 'e yours?"
"She is mine," corrected Georgie, hands on hips. The child's hand made to pull back, till she added, "But you may stroke her. If you're gentle."
"Cor!" Young Charlie's hand descended lightly, tickling the twitching ears, and Wommel yawned contentedly.
Foyle stepped back. "Well, I'll leave you dog-admiring people to it."
Georgie squatted in the doorway, then lowered herself to sit on the top step, and hugged her knees while Arthur climbed the steps to join them.
"Where did you get your wheels, by the way?" she nodded towards the pram.
"Found it dumped behind a shed on Collier Road, Miss."
"Empty?"
"Only some old garden tools. We chucked 'em out."
"You know," Georgie remarked nonchalantly, "I think an old gentleman might be missing the perambulator that he uses to wheel his tools to the allotment. How about you take it back, after the celebrations?"
Arthur bit his lip. "Oh, cripes. We didn't mean nothin'..."
Georgie nodded. "Yes, well. Just to make things tidy, best return it when the Fuehrer's been incinerated."
Relieved, the older boy crouched down beside his brother, and let the puppy's velvet nose sniff at his hand.
"What's she called?"
"Wommel."
"That's a daft name!" declared Charlie, with his usual charm, and earned a sharp poke from his brother. "Ow!"
"Mmm," conceded Georgie. "Maybe so. But it's unique."
"U-what?" The smaller boy frowned quizzically.
"U-nique," enunciated Georgie, stroking Wommel's head. "It means there's only one of it. Or that it only happens once."
"Like 'Itler?" offered Charlie, helpfully.
"Oh well, goodness me," she widened her eyes. "I hope you're right."
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
In the prelude to D-Day, 1944, one thousand men lost their lives as a result of a bungled military exercise, codenamed Exercise Tiger, off Slapton Sands, near Dartmouth, Devon.
The exercise was an American practice landing for D-Day, and it ended in disaster.
For details, go to exercisetigerslapton dot org. Particularly fascinating is the story of Ken Small's efforts to raise a submerged Sherman tank from the seabed as a memorial to those who lost their lives (from the pull-down menu, select Exercise Tiger/Ken Small).
...
...having them tap-dance round the fountain as they sang that very refrain!
Rosalind's idea was later borrowed ;o) for the 1983 film of Pirates, starring the (then gorgeously athletic) Kevin Kline.
...
More soon.
GiuC