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Part Eight: Stepping Out

Saturday 29 November 1941

Foyle nervously smoothed his hair and straightened the knot in his tie before knocking at the door of the little flat on Seymour Terrace.

He heard the click of high heels approaching and Katherine opened the door. "Good evening, Christopher," she smiled at him. "Do come in. I just need my coat."

His eyes swept admiringly over her as she turned away: dark-blue silk dress, single strand of pearls, hair falling in soft curls around a face subtly brightened with makeup. The mysteries of such feminine transformations always caught him off guard. Too shy to tell her how nice she looked, he helped her slip on the coat and escorted her out the door.

He'd chosen a quiet, rather elegant French restaurant only a short distance from her house, an important consideration since taxis were hard to come by these days and the November evening was chilly. He'd dined there once before, with Andrew and his friend Rex, and had been favourably impressed with both the food and the service.

Perhaps because of the early hour, the restaurant was not crowded. The waiter seated them with a flourish, holding Katherine's chair for her and bowing courteously before moving away.

The pair smiled at each other, slightly nervous, and opened the leather-covered menus. Wartime shortages had limited the selections considerably, so it did not take long for them to make their choices.

"Ready?" Christopher asked her, closing his menu.

She nodded. "The filet mignon, I think."

"And a starter?"

"Hmmm … perhaps the onion soup. It's a bit chilly tonight."

He glanced across the room to catch the waiter's eye, who hurried over to take their order.

"The lady will have the filet mignon, and I'd like the catch of the day. We'll both start with the onion soup, and … a bottle of rosé, please. Yes?" he raised his eyebrows at Katherine, who nodded her assent.

"Very good, sir. Excellent choice. And how would Madame like her filet mignon?"

"I'd like it medium well, thank you …" her voice trailed off. The waiter's obsequious manner abruptly vanished and he stared at her with undisguised contempt for a long moment. Christopher was speechless. Before he could recover from his shock at such unexpected rudeness the man had turned on his heel and marched away.

"What the …" he looked from the waiter's retreating back to Katherine. Two bright spots of colour burned in her cheeks. "What was that about?"

She looked away from him. "I … nothing."

"Nothing! Don't be ridiculous." He was mystified by what had just happened, but was certain that she understood. "Do you know him?"

"No."

"Ever been here before?"

"Never."

"Then what on earth possessed him?"

She reached for her water glass and took a sip, still not looking at him. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, of course you wouldn't. You're so polite to everyone." She set her glass down and raised her eyes to his face. "It was my accent."

"What?"

"He doesn't like Americans, Christopher."

He looked across the room and saw the man conferring with another waiter with agitated gestures. "Oh, surely not …" he trailed off with a frown as he realised that she was probably right. "Has this happened to you before?"

"Well … a few times. Not in restaurants. I rarely dine out, anyway. But - shopkeepers, that sort of thing …"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "Often?"

"No, no, not very often - well, until recently, that is." He looked at her intently, compelling her to go on. "I've been refused service three times in the past month," she admitted reluctantly.

His outrage was written plainly on his face. "That's inexcusable! What did you do?"

"Found another shop." She shrugged. "Not much else I can do, really."

"It's illegal. You should have reported it."

"To whom?"

"The proper authorities! The Ministry of Food, the police …"

"Christopher. If I walked into your police station and complained do you really think anything would come of it? Don't be naïve. The authorities have much too much to do to concern themselves with something so insignificant." Her attention was diverted by the waiter's approach with a bottle of wine. Guessing his intention, she reached over and laid a restraining hand over his on the snowy tablecloth. "Please don't make a scene."

He remained silent in the face of her obvious embarrassment, not wanting to spoil the evening, but he wasn't about to let such boorish conduct pass. Grasping her hand firmly in his so she couldn't withdraw, he stared coldly at the waiter as he poured the wine. Katherine watched in astonishment as the man cowered, intimidated by his implacable gaze. "Thank you," he growled curtly, and the hapless man scuttled away.

Once he was gone the two looked wordlessly at each other for a long moment. Christopher relaxed his grip. "I'm very sorry," he said softly. "You shouldn't have to put up with that sort of rudeness."

"You've nothing to apologise for, Christopher. Look, it's not something that happens every day. Most people are perfectly courteous. And I can understand it. This country is fighting for its very existence and the United States is sitting over there on other side of the Atlantic dithering about whether they should be doing anything at all to help. Of course the British resent it. I resent it."

"That's nothing to do with you. How can anyone believe that you have any say over America's foreign policy decisions? Total rubbish."

"Yes, but I'm a convenient target for people's frustrations. I'm here, don't you see?"

"Yes, you are. You're here, living with the bombings and the shortages and all the rest of it. You're volunteering with the WVS. You lost your husband to this war, for God's sake!"

"But he doesn't know that, does he?" she replied, nodding in the direction of the waiter. "I'll admit it's crossed my mind once or twice to make a badge that says "British War Widow" and pin it to my hat, but that seems a bit extreme, don't you think?" He scowled, not mollified.

"Don't be too hard on him, Christopher. We don't have any idea what that man has been through. He may have had a son killed in the forces or lost his whole family in a bombing raid. There's no way for us to know, any more than he can know about Stephen. There's tragedy enough to go around in this war."

"That's true enough." He sighed. "It's forbearing of you to look at it that way, Katherine."

She smiled wistfully. "Do you think so? I'm not sure. We all just have to pull together, don't we?"

Christopher suddenly realised that he was still holding her hand. He had only taken it initially to make a point in front of the waiter, but now the contact with her soft fingers was sending a pleasant tingling up his arm. "You sound like an Englishwoman."

"Well, I feel like an Englishwoman! More English than American, certainly, despite this ghastly accent of mine." That made him smile. "I fell in love with this country the first time I set foot here, Christopher. I just felt as though I belonged here."

"Is that why you didn't go home after you lost your husband?"

She nodded. "I already was home, you see. A lot of people advised me to go back to the States. A few even told me that it was criminal of me to risk Cecily's safety by staying. I gave it a lot of thought, but in the end I just couldn't go.

"What was there to go back to, after all? I have no close family left in America. And Stephen's family are all here. They've been good to us, especially since he was killed. Cecily's grown very close to her cousins, and here I know there's someone to look after her if something happened to me. Not to mention that crossing the Atlantic at this point would probably be more dangerous than staying here. After what happened to her father, Cecily gets hysterical at the very idea of getting on board a ship. So for better or worse, here we are."

She glanced down at their clasped hands and her colour rose slightly. Christopher looked down too and discovered that he had been unconsciously caressing her knuckles gently with his thumb. He released it and reached for his wine.

"What shall we drink to?" he asked her.

"To England," she answered, lifting her own glass. Their eyes met for a long moment as the glasses touched with a soft clink.

The spell was broken by the waiter, who placed soup bowls in front of each of them and retreated silently, his face a picture of surliness.

As they dipped their spoons into the soup, Christopher was surprised to see that she was smothering a smile. "What?" he asked her curiously.

"Him!" she said in a stage whisper. "Didn't you notice? You've got him scared to look at us. And without uttering a single word! I'm very impressed. Does that daunting glare come naturally, Mr Foyle, or did you have to practise it?"

He couldn't believe it. She was teasing him! He couldn't remember the last time a woman had done that. His lips twitched with amusement. "Took me years to cultivate that. Very useful asset."

"I daresay. I think that girl of yours was quite right."

"Girl?"

"Your driver. You know, with the lovely red hair. I've forgotten her name."

"Ah. Sam. What did she say?"

"She said you were very good at getting people to tell you what you wanted to know."

"When did she say that?"

"Right after you'd arrested Perkins. I was petrified he wouldn't tell us where Cecily was but she said not to worry, that you'd get it out of him. And, of course, you did. Now I know how."

"Ah."

"Would I be right in guessing that Sam has been on the receiving end of that look herself?"

"Sam? No. Well … maybe once or twice. My son, on the other hand … used it quite a bit on him as he was growing up."

Her melodious laughter rippled. "Poor lad."

"Always well deserved, Katherine."

"Is it just the two of you?"

"Yes."

Her gaze met his across the table and he felt a curious tightening in his chest that made it hard to draw breath. Her warm brown eyes seemed to probe his protective shell, finding the well of pain and loneliness that had darkened his life for so long. He felt both discomfited and deeply moved by the silent current of empathy that coursed between them. "How old was he when you lost your wife?" she asked softly.

"Thirteen." His voice was low.

"So you raised him on your own after that."

"Yes."

"That must have been … difficult,"

"Well … in some ways, perhaps. He had to learn to look after himself earlier than most children. I couldn't be there when he came in from school, for instance. He got into his share of scrapes. But he turned out all right in the end, I suppose."

"You said he's in uniform, didn't you? Which service?"

"RAF."

"Does he fly?"

Christopher nodded. "Spitfire."

"Oh!" Katherine's eyes widened. "That must be hard for you. The worrying, I mean."

"Well, yes. But he's doing what has to be done."

"Where's he based?"

"Biggin Hill, at the moment."

"I see so many of these young pilots at Lympne, at the canteen. Of course, we serve everybody there - ground crew, aircrew, WAAF … But I just marvel at the pilots. So young, and they take off day after day … such courage. Some of them don't even look old enough to shave and they've saved their country. It's extraordinary. Sometimes I get a lump in my throat, watching them. You must be so proud of him, Christopher."

Christopher was strongly affected, both by her words and by the sincerity on her face. She'd put into words exactly how he felt about Andrew and his flying. "Y-y-y-e-s," he murmured huskily.

Realising she was on sensitive ground, she tactfully changed the subject. "What was he doing before the war?"

"He was up at Oxford."

"Oh? Which college?"

"Magdalen."

"He's twenty-three, you said? He must have been nearly finished."

"Yes, he was called up with only one term left."

"What was he reading?"

"Maths."

"Not so far from your field, then." He cocked his head, puzzled. "Well, mathematics is all about logic, isn't it? Spotting patterns and anomalies? You must do a lot of that in your work."

"Can't say I ever thought of it that way … nor has my son ever seemed particularly logical. Quite the contrary."

"How did you come to be a police officer?"

"Rather a natural progression in my case. My father was a sergeant. Just assumed I would join too. I went into police training when I left school and came back to the force after I was demobilised at the end of the last war."

"And do you find it a satisfying career?"

He paused, reaching for his wine glass. "Don't think anyone has ever asked me that before, at least not in quite those terms." He sipped thoughtfully. "Yes and no. We see the very worst of human nature in police work, which can be discouraging. But I do derive immense satisfaction from putting bringing lawbreakers to justice. On the other hand, routine police work can seem irrelevant in the middle of a war. I've applied repeatedly for a transfer to something more directly related to the war effort, but without success."

"But surely at least some of your cases must be connected to the war."

"Oh, a great many. We've dealt with fuel racketeering, the black market, ration-book fraud, call-up evaders, deserters, identity-card forgery, looting …"

"Well, all that sounds very relevant to the war effort, Christopher. It certainly seems as if you are doing your bit."

They were interrupted by the return of the waiter. Katherine cast her eyes down uncomfortably as he removed the soup bowls and served the main course. His manner was still sullen but he offered no further insult.

"Have you always lived in Hastings?" she asked, once he had disappeared again.

"Yes."

"How lucky you are. It's a beautiful little town. It must have been a good place to grow up. Do you have family here? Apart from your son, I mean?"

"Not any longer. My parents are gone; had no brothers or sisters. There's an old aunt over in Eastbourne, but that's about it."

"But you must know half the town, since you've lived here all your life."

"Well, there was a time I'd have said so, but the war has changed that. So many people have left and there are so many newcomers here now."

"Like me."

"What made you settle in Hastings?"

"Family, mostly. Stephen's family are all on the South Coast. He grew up near Folkestone. I liked Hastings and I found a good school for Cecily here. I see a lot of Sarah, his sister, in Battle. She has four children and Cecily really enjoys spending time with them. Gives her a taste of real family life, you see. She often sleeps over at weekends if I've taken a night shift at the canteen. She's there tonight, in fact."

"Where did you live before that?"

"In naval quarters in Plymouth. We moved here a few weeks after the Whirlwind was lost."

"And before the war?"

"We were in Pennsylvania. In the States."

"So you came back after the war started?"

"Yes."

"When did you first come to England?"

"In '27."

"That long ago? What brought you here?"

"It's sort of a long story, Christopher."

"I'd like very much to hear it."

She took a sip of wine. "Well, it really begins at Cambridge, I suppose. No, I'd better go further back. When I was very small, my mother developed tuberculosis and she was in and out of sanatoriums for years. It was just Dad and me most of the time. She died when I was ten. But when I was about four he hired a live-in housekeeper, Mrs Oliver, who was English. She's the one who really brought me up.

"She was just wonderful. She'd been a stewardess with Cunard before she came to us. She told me lots of stories, both about her career on the great ocean liners and about England. She was from 'emel 'empstead, in 'ertfordshire" – Christopher smiled at her mimicry of the woman's accent – "and she firmly believed that England was the best place in the world. She taught me to love England years before I ever got here. I'd come home from school and she'd serve me tea and scones when all my friends got milk and cookies. I thought it was very special.

"She was also a big believer in education and always encouraged me to work hard in school. My dad wasn't too interested in my grades, but Mrs Oliver always made a fuss when I got good marks. She'd take me to the library every week and downtown on the streetcar to visit the museums. A lot of her stories were about British history – not always accurate, as I later discovered – but she fostered my interest in the past.

"Thanks to her encouragement I won a scholarship at Wellesley, a very good girls' college in Boston. My father was pleased. He had started a Packard dealership after the war and was coming up in the world. I realised later that he sent me up to college expecting me to catch a rich husband – Harvard isn't far from there, you see, and lots of Wellesley girls wind up marrying Harvard fellows. But not me. I had a wonderful four years and made some marvellous friends, but what I fell in love with was history, especially British history."

Christopher was watching the animation in her face as she spoke. She has the most beautiful eyes, he thought. What a fascinating woman!

"While I was away at college, my dad remarried. His new wife was very interested in money and society, Washington society. When I came back home after graduation she and my dad insisted on launching me into the social scene. They were convinced that with the right wardrobe and my dad's money, I could catch a wealthy and influential husband. They even had their eyes on a Congressman's son for a while. I spent a miserable year being pushed from parties to dances to receptions. This was the flapper era, Christopher! It was all bobbed hair and speakeasies and tearing around in automobiles." She shuddered. "I was bored rigid. I couldn't seem to persuade Dad that I wasn't meant for that sort of life. He wanted me to be a society belle and he had a very hard time accepting that, at heart, I was a bluestocking."

Christopher laughed. "Hardly the word I would choose, Katherine."

"Well, perhaps you don't know me well enough. Suffice it to say that after a year I had had quite enough. The whole time they had dragged me around on their stupid social whirl I had been dreaming of Cambridge. My favourite professor at Wellesley had encouraged me to come over and read for a second degree. She was sure I could get a place. Thanks to my dear Mrs Oliver I had wanted to come to England since I was a little girl. I applied in secret and was accepted at Newnham College. I had a hard time convincing Dad to let me go but he finally gave in. I was twenty-two, after all."

"So you came to England."

"Yes, I finally made it. I so wish Mrs Oliver could have lived to see it."

"Oh, she wasn't …"

"No, she died in the influenza epidemic of 1919, when I was still in high school."

Christopher nodded gravely. "My father died in that epidemic."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Christopher." She gave him a sympathetic glance.

"It's all right. Long time ago. Please go on."

"You're sure I'm not boring you?"

"Not at all. So what happened at Cambridge?"

"Well, I read history for two years, and I met Stephen Neville-West."

"He was studying there?"

"Yes, he was reading for his doctorate in medieval studies at Caius. I met him my first term and we just got closer and closer. By the middle of my second year we both knew that we wanted to be together. But when I wrote and told my father that he'd asked me to marry him, Dad hit the roof."

"Why?"

"Stephen wasn't wealthy. His family is well-connected but not rich, and as the third son in his family he wasn't in line to inherit much. When Dad found out that Stephen's prospects were more or less limited to a don's salary, he forbade the marriage and insisted I come home."

"And did you?"

"Very reluctantly. I couldn't bring myself to defy him but I was determined to change his mind. Since I was an only child, he had pinned all his hopes on me, you see, and I couldn't bear to break his heart. We argued and argued about Stephen but I got nowhere. He was convinced that Stephen only wanted to marry me because my father was wealthy. Dad made a lot of money during the twenties, you see. I knew that was ridiculous, because I'd never told Stephen anything about my dad's financial situation, but he refused to believe it. He also didn't want me to move to England for good. Anyway, about two months after I got home, just when I'd started to believe that I was never going to win him over, everything fell apart."

"What happened?"

"The Crash. I hadn't known it, but the whole time I'd been abroad Dad had been investing more and more. He'd even borrowed money against the business and used it to buy stocks. When the market crashed he lost nearly everything."

"I see."

"He was devastated. He'd worked his whole life, you see, and suddenly it was all gone. Then his wife left to spend the winter in Palm Beach and it looked as if she might not come back. I think that was the final straw. That January he died of a massive heart attack."

"I'm sorry, Katherine. What a tragedy."

"It was. He didn't seem to have anything left to live for. His money was gone, his wife was gone and I had disappointed him too. As for me – it may sound terrible, but his death was a liberation. I grieved for him, of course, but there was nothing to keep me in the States after he was gone. As soon as I wrote to Stephen about what had happened, he came over be with me. Once I'd settled Dad's affairs we came back to England and got married."

"So you got what you wanted after all."

"I did. Oh, there were problems. His parents weren't exactly thrilled to have an American daughter-in-law, and he had trouble finding a permanent teaching post. Times were hard, so universities were reducing their faculties, not hiring new lecturers. We wound up moving almost every year as he went from one temporary post to another - Cardiff, Ipswich, Leeds, Sheffield, Newcastle, even Glasgow for some summer terms. But at least we were together."

"But you went back to America eventually?"

"Yes. It was always meant to be temporary. Stephen felt very strongly that he was failing us by not being able to find a permanent job somewhere. It wasn't due to lack of ability on his part, you understand; he was quite a brilliant scholar, and a good teacher. It was the Depression. He hated the uncertainty and the moving around, and it bothered him a great deal that we weren't able to settle down anywhere, especially after Cecily was born. Finally in the winter of '38 he heard of a vacancy for a medievalist at a university in Pennsylvania. He applied and they took him on straight away. We always planned to come back someday when times were better. We both wanted to bring Cecily up in England, not in America."

"What was it like for you going back after so long?"

"Very strange. It was familiar and yet alien at the same time. I didn't fit in. I missed England, and of course Stephen did, too."

"But you came back when the war broke out."

"Yes. Stephen gave in his notice the day after Hitler invaded Poland."

"Surely he wasn't expecting to be called up that quickly?"

"Oh, no. He volunteered. He'd been in the Navy for a few years when he was younger, you see. His family are all Navy – his grandfather in the Boer War, his father in the last war and now both his brothers and a nephew. It was inconceivable that he wouldn't come home and join up."

"But you and Cecily could have stayed in America, couldn't you?"

"I never even considered it, war or no war. Of course we had to come with him. Stephen was coming home to fight. And England is home."

By now they were so engrossed in their conversation that they barely noticed that the waiter had cleared away their plates. Christopher had poured the last of the wine into their glasses and they sat nursing it as Katherine finished her tale. Gazing across the table at her in the soft light, Christopher felt a rush of tenderness.

"An extraordinary story, Katherine."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't know about that. But you're a very good listener, Christopher." He looked into her deep brown eyes and thought again how beautiful they were. Mesmerising eyes. And the shape of her lips … he caught himself.

He broke his gaze, afraid she could read his unruly thoughts. "Would you … care for dessert?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Coffee?"

"No. I've never developed a taste for it."

His eyebrows shot up. "An American who doesn't drink coffee?"

She grinned. "Oh, stop! Thanks to the good Mrs Oliver, I only ever drink tea."

"Well, blessings on Mrs Oliver. Cup of tea?"

"Nothing for me, thank you."

"Shall we go then?"

She nodded. "I'll just slip off to the powder room first."

He stood up when she rose, signalling the waiter for the bill. He took a grim pleasure in leaving only a thruppence tip.

In the restaurant lobby he helped her on with her coat and offered her his arm. She slipped a gloved hand into the crook of his elbow as they started home.

After a few desultory remarks about the cloudy weather and the lack of bombers, they fell into a companionable silence. Christopher fancied he could feel the warmth of her hand even through his coat sleeve. Remarkable, he thought. I haven't felt this comfortable with any woman since … since Rosalind.

The thought startled him. I need to get hold of myself, he told himself sternly. I'm feeling protective of her because of that oaf of a waiter. But he knew it was more than that. Or maybe it's because she's widowed and raising a child alone, just as I did. But he knew deep down that this didn't account for the tenderness he was feeling, either.

Well, how about the fact that I've been alone for almost ten years? Too long. She's beautiful, she's intelligent, she's kind … no wonder my feelings are running away with me.

Stop it. She's nowhere near ready for a new man in her life. Her husband hasn't been gone two years yet. Go slowly, Christopher, or you'll scare her.

When they reached the door of 16 Seymour Terrace, she turned to face him. "This has been a lovely evening, Christopher. Thank you so much." She gently squeezed one of his hands with her gloved one.

Christopher's heart turned over. "A pleasure," he said softly. "I'd like to see you again, if I may." She nodded, suddenly shy.

He leaned closer, intending to kiss her on the cheek. Almost of their own volition, his lips brushed across hers instead. Mesmerised by their softness, he gently kissed her again, allowing himself to linger for a precious moment.

He drew back reluctantly. "Good night, Katherine," he said, stepping back.

She smiled up at him. "Good night, Christopher."