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Part Eleven: A Second Chance?

When he got home Sam was gone, but his son was waiting up for him. "Dad. Sit down." He handed his father a whisky.

Foyle accepted the drink, somewhat surprised. He usually played bartender for Andrew, not the other way round. He sank into his chair, loosening his tie. He'd have preferred to go straight up to bed, but Andrew obviously had other ideas. His son settled into the opposite chair, nursing his own drink. After a long silence, he asked quietly, "Were you never going to tell me about her?"

Foyle sighed and rubbed his brow. "Of course I was, eventually. We've only been out twice, Andrew. I just met her a few weeks ago. It's much too soon to know if anything will come of it."

"It looked pretty serious to me, Dad."

"What makes you say that?"

"The way you were looking at her."

Unable to argue, Foyle said nothing. He sipped his whisky and fidgeted unconsciously with one of his waistcoat buttons.

"Sam says she's a widow."

"Yes. Her husband's ship was lost at sea, summer before last."

"And she has a child?"

"A seven-year-old daughter."

"Why didn't she go back to America after her husband was killed?"

"I asked her that. She said she feels more loyal to England than to America. She's had a difficult time, Andrew. She's lived over here most of her adult life but she admitted that lately she's faced a lot of anti-American prejudice. People being rude to her, shopkeepers refusing to serve her, that sort of thing. I've even seen it myself. It's inexcusable."

"Well, perhaps tonight's news will change that."

"I hope so, for her sake."

"How old is she?"

"Think she's in her late thirties. Why?"

"Just curious. I have to say, Dad, I admire your taste. She's beautiful!"

Foyle smiled wryly. "Trust you for that."

"And she seems quite … intelligent."

"Mmmm. She read history at Cambridge. Took a degree."

"Really? That's unusual."

"She's an unusual woman."

"Well, I don't believe I'd let her get away if I were you, Dad."

"I hadn't intended to."

"Anyway, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about." Andrew took a swallow of his drink and set down his glass.

"Oh? What's that?"

"Looks like I'm going to be transferred."

His father's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"No surprise, really. It's been in the wind for some time. The thing is, my CO seems to think they could use me in night fighter training."

"Not Spitfires?"

"No. Group need more long-range fighters now. Escorts for cross-Channel bombers, that sort of thing. Twin-engine kites like the Blenheim."

"You've flown those?"

"I've taken one up a few times. The Blenheim's all right, but it's not fast enough. But we've got a new plane, the Beaufighter – wizard! She'll go over three hundred miles an hour, range fourteen hundred miles. Lot more firepower than a Spit, too. That's what I'll be doing, training Blenheims and Beaufighters."

"I see. And where - "

"Church Fenton. Near York."

"Yorkshire," repeated the father, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Too far away, he knew, for regular visits home.

His son shrugged and reached for his whisky again. "Can't be as bad as Ross-shire. But you're right, of course, I don't imagine I'll get home very often. Sorry, Dad."

"So am I, but can't be helped. When do you go?"

"Not sure. I don't actually have orders yet. Probably not until the new year. So hopefully I'll get Christmas leave, anyway."

"Well, son. I wish you the best of luck." Finishing his whisky, he rose, stretching. "Quite an evening. Think I'll head up. Goodnight, Andrew."

"'Night, Dad."

He lay awake for a long time that night, captivated by a curious jumble of emotions. Andrew's announcement was foremost in his thoughts. He's really leaving home, he realised. Christopher knew how lucky he'd been to have had his son posted so close to home when he went on active service; many parents went months or even years without seeing their uniformed sons and daughters. Now he, too, was facing that prospect. Of course, he had always known that Andrew would move out someday, but until now that eventuality had remained safely in the future. Now it was suddenly upon him.

Andrew would be gone. Not gone for a month or two at a time, as when he had gone up to Oxford; not gone for stretches of a few weeks, as when he had entered active service on the South Coast. He probably wouldn't be granted enough leave to manage a trip home more than once or twice a year. For the first time, Christopher realised, he would be truly be alone in the house on Steep Lane.

He realised with a sick twist that he must have been dreading this moment for years without knowing it, perhaps ever since Rosalind's death. He had been distracted from his own slow grieving only by Andrew's presence, and his needs – first as a shattered boy in need of love and care, then as a headstrong adolescent requiring firm guidance, and finally as a young man, still turning to his father for advice and encouragement. No more laughing youth cracking jokes over breakfast in the sunny kitchen. No more quiet discussions nursing a whisky in the sitting room after dinner. All over. Even when he did manage to get home, things wouldn't be the same. The unusually close relationship that had marked them as a family of two since the boy was thirteen would be forever altered.

Where had the years gone? he thought dismally. Memories of Andrew's growing up came flooding back: reading him bedtime stories and tucking him in each night. Taking him to his first football match. Rushing him to hospital with a broken collarbone, souvenir from a fall from a tree. Sitting at the table with him evening after evening, struggling with his maths prep. Helping him cope with the loss of his mother. Listening to him describe the endless series of girls who'd caught his eye. The fierce pride he'd felt upon his acceptance to Oxford, and again later, when he'd come home to tell his father he'd joined the RAF. Andrew had been the emotional centre of his life for ten years. I'm not ready for this, he admitted to himself. I'm not ready for it all to be over.

He remembered a remark Katherine had made about Cecily the night he had brought her home: she's my reason for getting up in the morning. Sometimes, I think, my only reason for living. The words had resonated deeply with him, knowing as he did the paralysing grief of being widowed. They had been the spark that had first captured his interest in her as a woman, more than just as a figure in a case he was trying to solve.

Katherine. His depression over Andrew's leaving was suddenly overcome by memories of her. Eyes wide with fear as she begged him to find her child; weeping with relief upon Cecily's safe return; blushing with pleasure when he'd asked her to dinner. The tenderness and affection she lavished on her daughter. The animated sparkle in her eyes when she talked, and the flattering attention she paid him when he spoke. The way she gently drew him out, getting him to confide memories and feelings he usually preferred to keep hidden. And most unsettling of all, how right she had felt in his arms tonight, and her passionate response to his kiss.

A new series of images rose unbidden in his mind: Katherine, here in Steep Lane. With Cecily. Cecily living in Andrew's room, bouncing downstairs for breakfast with her blonde braids swinging. Katherine pouring his morning tea, kissing him when he came home from work, sitting with him after dinner. Katherine's dark hair spread over the pillow next to his. Katherine, his wife.

He was so astonished at the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken that he abruptly sat up in bed. Madness, he thought. This is madness. I've barely known her a month. What am I thinking? Is this just because I'm afraid of being alone?

No. It isn't. I'm falling in love with her. He shook his head as if to shake the thought from his mind, but it refused to be dislodged. How could it be, after ten years of carefully avoiding every prospect of a woman in his life, that this had happened so quickly? He didn't know, but he could no longer deny his feelings. If he hadn't put his heart in cold storage years ago, he might have recognised the truth before this. Even Andrew had seen it, in the space of a few minutes.

The picture of his future had suddenly changed: instead of years of loneliness, the enchanting possibility of a new family. Katherine, Cecily, and himself. A family.

Well, that's a lovely notion, he told himself wryly, but come off it, Foyle! She wouldn't want to marry you, a settled, grumpy widower a decade her senior, with no particular distinction?

Would she?

She seems to like you, a voice inside his head whispered. What was it she called you tonight? Attractive? And … charming? And then, there was the way she had surrendered to his embrace …

All right, yes, she's attracted to me. But is that enough to make a marriage?

He forced himself to try to view the situation dispassionately. Yes, he was roughly ten or twelve years older than she, as nearly as he could guess, but that wasn't an insurmountable gap. He wasn't wealthy, but she obviously hadn't married her first husband for money, and his own financial position was quite comfortable, thanks to his high rank in the police force and his frugal nature. He couldn't begin to approach her education, of course, but he had risen to a very respectable position in his own field. He was acutely aware of the social gap between himself and her first husband, but as an American she seemed to be free of much of the class-consciousness that still dominated English society. He had never detected the faintest hint of snobbery in her.

And he could be good to her. Oh, how good he would be to her, given the chance. He could alleviate the soul-killing emptiness of being alone too long. She was much too spirited to wall herself off from life, as he had done. And Cecily … his heart lightened still further at the idea of a child in the house again. How he would enjoy a second chance at fatherhood. He honestly believed he could do a better job this time, having gained both patience and experience with the years. And, of course, he wouldn't be trying to raise her alone. Loving Cecily would be so easy – she had charmed him effortlessly in their first two or three meetings.

But could the child love him? Could she ever come to accept him as a substitute for her adored father? And could Katherine ever love him as a husband?

It was a question he couldn't answer.

He lay back down, thinking hard. He knew he had to proceed slowly. He remembered how far he had been from being ready for a new relationship a year and a half after Rosalind's death. Not that he expected Katherine to hibernate emotionally for anywhere near as long as he had; he doubted it was in her nature. But still, it wouldn't do to rush her. Give her time to allow her feelings grow naturally if they would. Be attentive, be supportive, give her a chance to get to know him better.

And especially, he must keep his physical attraction to her under control. As delightful as tonight's encounter had been, he realised that to push her into further sexual intimacy too quickly would probably doom the relationship. It wasn't seduction he wanted from her, it was marriage.

Marriage. Marriage to Katherine. Could it ever be?

When at last he slept, his dreams were happier and more hopeful than they had been in a long, long time.

FINIS