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Only You	By : Hazeleyed Category: 1 through F > Foyle's War Views: 6319 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Foyles War, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: Foyle’s war and characters are a copyright product originally owned by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended.

Title: Only You, chapter 10

Rating: T or 13+

Author: hazeleyes57

‘Ship: Foyle/Sam

A/N: Pushing the beggars as fast as I can…

Only You Chapter 10

When Sam knocked on the front door of the Steep Lane house and braced herself for the first sight of the man she loved beyond reason, she was surprised and considerably deflated to see a dishevelled Andrew appear at the door.

“Sam? Are you here for Dad?”

Taking in his hastily gathered gown and bare feet, Sam realised that she had got Andrew out of bed.

“Yes. I’m terribly sorry to disturb you; I thought Mr Foyle would answer the door first. Is he ready?”

She knew that she was a little early, but she like to be punctual. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that she usually hoped to catch Christopher before he was all buttoned up in his waistcoat and jacket. Or that she liked to torture herself by being in his company even though her heart was breaking.

Andrew frowned, and then opened the door further.

“Come in for a minute. Now I come to think about it, I don’t think he’s here.”

Sam entered the house and stood in the hall while Andrew stuck his head in the front room, then the kitchen. He returned with a small piece of paper.

“Dad’s already gone to work; an early start, apparently.”

Sam couldn’t hide her disappointment. Her flat ‘Oh’ gave away more than she realised.

Andrew frowned again, deep in thought. He looked up from the note to Sam.

“How did you know I was here?”

Sam looked startled.

“Sorry?”

“You just said ‘I thought Mr Foyle would answer the door first’. How did you know that I was here?”

“Umm…”

Andrew watched Sam’s eyes dart around the hall, clearly looking for inspiration.

She pointed to his coat on the hook.

“Your greatcoat. RAF blue. Couldn’t miss it.”

“Really?”

Sam nodded, unable to give voice to the lie.

“Mmm.”

Andrew looked at her with distinct suspicion.

“And just how did you see it before I opened the door??”

“Peeked through the letterbox.” This lie didn’t count – she had her fingers crossed behind her back. “Terribly sorry, must dash, late for work. Bye!”

Sam fled out of the door and down the steps in a flash, leaving Andrew standing open-mouthed in the hall.

What the hell is going on here?

He suddenly had another thought. He jumped for the door and saw Sam just as she drove away.

“It’s Saturday!”

* * * * *

Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle was seated at his desk, but faced the large window to his left. He had no idea what the time was and didn’t care. He only knew that he had left early to avoid being collected by Sam.

It was only when he saw Sgt Brooks’ surprise when he walked through the station doors that he realised that it was his Saturday off and he actually had no reason to be at work.

No reason other than I couldn’t face going into the front room and reliving my misery all over again.

Foyle was no coward, but his strongest urge was to flee. Not just his office, but his house, his job and Hastings. Every where he went reminded him of Sam; the only place she had not been was his bed, and that’s where he thought about her most of all.

With effort he loaded a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter.

Time for another letter to AC Summers.

* * * * * *

When Sam also belatedly realised it was Saturday, she returned the Wolseley to the station garage and collected her bicycle without going inside the main building. After nipping home to change into civvies, she rode out to the river where she knew Foyle fished sometimes, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She cycled up and down the marine parade and got a lump in her throat when she saw the tall black net drying sheds.

This can’t wait until Monday, where are you? I can’t get the picture of your face out of my mind.

Sam stopped and hopped off her bicycle. She looked out to sea and breathed deep to calm herself. There was the faintest hint of Spring on the breeze, a subtle reminder of renewal and new life.

New life! Oh God!

Think girl, where would you go if you were him?

Work. That’s what I’d do, that’s why I ended up at Steep Lane this morning.

Sam turned her bike around and got back on, heading for the station.

When she turned up there, pink cheeked with effort, Sgt Brooks got his second surprise of the day.

“Miss Stewart? Is everything all right? First the boss, and now you. I should think you’re both sick of the place.”

Sam tried for a pleasant smile.

“No, Brookie, I’ve just popped in for a moment, shan’t be long. Forgot something yesterday.”

She hurried past the front desk and along the corridor to Foyle’s office. The door was shut, which was unusual. Bracing herself, she knocked. After an agonizingly long couple of seconds, she heard the ‘come in’.

Foyle didn’t look up, intent as he was on his letter. It couldn’t possibly be who he wanted to see anyway.

“Hello.”

Foyle’s head came up in shock.

“S…Sam?”

She entered the office and closed the door behind her.

After his first stuttering ‘Sam’, Foyle’s expression had closed. He noted that she didn’t cross to the desk or visitor’s chair.

“Could I have a word?”

No. I’m too busy. Go away.

“Yep.”

If you are here to tell me again that you are sorry, I may just break something.

Sam suddenly wished that she was wearing her uniform. Something about the stiff serge material gave her additional backbone in difficult situations. Her hands twisted together.

Foyle waited. He watched the colour come and go in Sam’s face.

Christ, he couldn’t even hate her.

He watched her gaze skid round the room before settling on the typewriter in front of him. She wouldn’t make eye contact.

“I just wanted to let you know that…it’s okay, I’ve had…I’m not…”

Foyle’s expression remained neutral, but it was an effort. He was bitterly disappointed; his last hope had just evaporated.

“I see.”

He leaned with false casualness on his left elbow, and fixed Sam with a firm look.

“And when did you find this out? Last night, by any chance?”

Sam’s genuinely horrified ‘No!’ mollified Foyle somewhat. He closed his eyes briefly, striving to remain calm when he felt anything but.

She took an involuntary step closer, wanting so much to go to him.

“This morning, actually.” Sam hesitated, hating his lack of reaction. “At least you’re off the hook.”

Foyle straightened up and his mild look did not deceive her.

“I never felt that I was on a hook, Sam. I wasn’t the one doing something that I didn’t want to do.”

Sam flinched at the unexpected hit. This wasn’t the reaction that she had envisaged.

“I thought you’d be more…relieved.”

Her voice was uncertain, as if she was processing an unexpected response.

Both of Foyle’s eyebrows went up and his lips pursed briefly.

“Did you? Mmm. Well, I dare say you are.”

Sam slowly nodded.

“Good.” Foyle’s tone signalled that their meeting was at an end. “See you on Monday, then?”

He peered at the sheet in his typewriter, appearing to have dismissed Sam already.

“Yes…Sir.”

Foyle heard the door close quietly behind Sam and he dropped his pretence. His head dropped into his hands.

“Oh bloody hell.”

* * * * *

That evening the two Foyle men were seated at the kitchen table having supper. Andrew didn’t question his father’s suggestion that they eat in the kitchen; it was less distance to carry the plates from the oven and to the sink.

It was quiet by comparison to their usual meal time catch-ups.

Andrew had surprised his father by having the meal ready in the oven when he got in, then explained that it was by way of an apology for not being able to be back for his mother’s anniversary the previous month. His father had leaned back in his chair and looked at him.

“You don’t have to apologise to me for not being there. I know that you are busy with your instructor training and it’s not always convenient to get back here. I understand, and so would your mother. I’m still in Hastings, I have the time.”

Foyle picked up his knife and fork again.

“However, you should feel guilty more often; your cooking skills have improved.”

Andrew laughed.

“Yes, well, there are few women on the base – slim pickings for us with so many fly-boys to choose from. So we have to find another outlet for our energy.”

Foyle smiled, the closest thing to a laugh he felt that he could manage.

“One good thing to have come out of all this mess then.”

Andrew looked at him, his expression thoughtful.

“Still no-one special in your life, Dad?”

Foyle’s lips twisted.

“As I said once before, you think I’d tell you?”

Andrew’s grin was half sheepish, half salacious.

“I suppose not. I just wondered if that was why you were a bit out of sorts when I turned up last night. Y’know, if you had got a lady-friend tucked away and were planning a cosy evening together, I would have understood.”

Andrew’s grin was a little too sly for his father’s liking, but it failed to stop the hint of red warming his cheeks at his son’s accurate hit.

“Hmm.”

“Well, it has been more than ten years, and there is a war on. You could be forgiven for living for the moment.”

Foyle looked exasperated.

“Have you been talking to Hugh Reid?”

Andrew looked surprised.

“No, why?”

“Never mind.”

“So, have you? Been living for the moment?”

Foyle stopped eating again and looked at Andrew.

“You’re very persistent. But, in answer, I don’t see the point. We could all be dead by this time next year, so why risk it?”

Andrew was surprised at his father’s comments.

“I’ve had this discussion with you before about policing in a time of war, and you made a very cogent argument for it, so why the defeatist talk now?”

Foyle shook his head, wishing he’d never started.

“Don’t mind me; I’m in a precious maudlin mood.”

Andrew looked more closely at his father and noted the underlying strain.

“Okay.”

They ate in silence for a few more minutes. Jam roly poly was served and almost finished when Andrew posed another question, quite out of the blue.

“If you had known that Mum would die so young, would you still have married her?”

Foyle looked shocked and his spoon clattered against his bowl.

“What kind of a question is that? Of course I would have. Apart from anything else, we wouldn’t have had you.”

Andrew seemed unusually serious.

“So, even knowing that she would die, that you couldn’t have your happy ever after, you would still have married her and lived with the pain of her loss?”

Foyle frowned, uncomfortable with the pain he was feeling for both the present and the past.

“Yes. Yes, even with the pain. She was worth it.”

Andrew seemed satisfied with his father’s answer.

“Yes, she was worth it, even for a short span of time, because she made you happy.”

Foyle nodded, but said nothing.

A silent beat passed. Andrew looked up from his bowl.

“How’s Sam?”

* * * * *

Milner sensed the change between them on Monday morning as soon as he saw them arrive. The DCS was ‘flat’ and subdued, while Sam looked…lost. He wondered what on earth could have happened to have snuffed out the glow that both of them had been basking in on Friday evening.

It was the start of a bad couple of weeks.

Foyle was introspective – even more than was usual for him. Sam was obviously making an effort to be her usual self, but by the end of the first week the strain was beginning to show. She looked like she hadn’t been sleeping too well, her already fair skin was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.

Milner had been in Foyle’s office on Wednesday when Sam brought them both a cup of tea. Milner had smiled up at Sam to thank her, but she was staring miserably at Foyle. He, in turn, gave a polite but distant ‘thank you, Sam’ without looking up at her.

Milner wanted to slap them both.

By Thursday evening of the second week he confessed to Edie that he was worried about Sam. Having met both Sam and Foyle, Edie advised him to watch and wait to see if they could sort things out by themselves. It rarely worked well when outsiders interfered.

Friday morning arrived and so did Sam and Foyle. It was a quiet day to start with, and Sam went to get tea for both Foyle and Milner. The latter followed her to collect the tea to spare her having to go into the DCS’ office.

“End of the week at last, Sam. Got any plans for the weekend?”

Milner could have bitten his tongue out; he had just been trying to make conversation. Sam smiled wanly as she waited for the kettle to boil. She knew he meant well.

“No, not really. I’m a bit tired to be honest. Thought I’d have a lie in.”

She picked up the bottle of milk and lifted the lid. Out of habit she gave it a quick sniff as it had been left out long enough to get warmish. She recoiled and handed the bottle to Milner.

“Is that ‘off’ or is it just me?”

Milner took a cautious sniff and looked mildly surprised.

“It seems fine to me. Couple of years living alone has obviously toughened me up. I say, are you all right? You look a bit green around the gills.”

Sam waved off his concern with another smile as she poured the boiling water on the tea leaves.

“No, I’m fine, thanks Paul.”

She set out two cups on saucers and put a little milk in each.

“How are the wedding plans coming along?

“Not bad at all, pretty much set really. All I have to do now is wait and hope Edie doesn’t change her mind.”

Sam laughed, her first genuine one in a while.

“She’d be absolutely mad, fine catch like you.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

Milner registered the two cups.

“You’re not joining us?”

* * * * *

Foyle looked up as he registered the sergeant in the doorway of his office. He hoped that he had hidden his disappointment that it wasn’t Sam. Milner made his careful way over to the boss’ desk and handed him one of the cups of tea.

Foyle placed it on his desk and his brow furrowed as he inquired;

“Er, couldn’t Sam find the tray?”

Milner shook his head.

“No, Sir, it wasn’t that. She says that she’s gone off tea a bit, it tasted funny yesterday. She thinks the milk is on the turn.”

Foyle’s disappointment at Sam’s absence turned to curiosity.

“Oh. Is it?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Really? Mmm, let’s get to work, shall we?”

* * * * *

Chief Superintendent Reid stuck his head around Foyle’s door about four o’clock.

“Got a minute?”

Foyle looked at the two remaining files that he had been hoping to finish before he went home.

“Just about. Come on in.”

Hugh Reid entered the office and closed the door behind him. Foyle raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Reid took a seat. Cleared his throat.

“How are things going?”

Foyle leaned back in his chair, one elbow propped on the arm of it.

“Um, pretty much as usual. Crime rate is up, staffing levels down. More red tape, less resources to implement it. Usual stuff.”

Reid nodded; this was nothing new to him.

There was a long silence.

Foyle tutted; he hope to God he wasn’t so easy to read – no pun intended.

“Out with it.”

Reid looked awkward, as if he’d rather be somewhere else. After a moment, he sighed.

“Fair enough. I’m not asking any questions, it’s none of my business, but it’s about Sam.”

Foyle casually straightened in his chair, alert.

“What about Sam?”

“Some of the men are expressing a little concern that ‘things’ are getting a bit on top of her. I know more than one of the officers expressed dismay when a woman came to work for you, worried that she wouldn’t pull her weight, but Sam saw all that off. She’s a plucky little thing, has proved herself, and has been taken under the station’s wing. Frankly, the men are worried about her.”

“Yes, I can understand that. What is it that you think I can do?”

Reid paused delicately.

“Well, find out what’s upsetting her. You see her the most, out in the car. See if you can’t get her to confide in you, see what’s what.”

Foyle almost laughed at the irony of it.

“And then?”

Reid looked surprised that he had to ask.

“Well, fix it, of course.”

“Riiight.”

Happier now that his task had been passed on, Reid got to his feet.

“Good, glad that’s sorted.”

Foyle frowned.

I’ll just bet you are.

Reid turned back at the door.

“See you on Sunday, Sylvie said to remind you.”

Foyle was glad that he had.

Sunday Roast with the Reid family; I’d completely forgotten with all the distractions the last couple of weeks.

“Yep, I’ll be there.”

The door was left open behind Reid, as he had found it, and Foyle had just picked up his pen, when the doorway was filled again. Foyle’s fingers tightened on the pen, so that he didn’t fling it on the desk.

“Sir?”

Milner, thank God, a voice of reason.

“Yep?”

“Sam thought you might like another tea.”

I’d drink a gallon of the bloody stuff if it meant she’d come and have it with us.

“Very thoughtful. She joining us?”

“Shortly. Just heard that the shop up the road has had a delivery of broken biscuits – she was off like a shot.”

Foyle smiled despite himself, well able to picture Sam’s enthusiasm where food was concerned.

It was the first time that Milner had seen anything like a smile out of the older man in the last two weeks, and he felt relieved. Maybe Edie had been right to advise him to leave well alone.

Foyle stirred, a thought occurring to him.

“By the way, I forgot to say earlier, but thank you for the wedding invitation, I’d be honoured to attend.”

Milner smiled, genuinely pleased.

“Thank you, Sir. Edie will be pleased. Her brother should be home in time for it too, so she’s very happy.”

Foyle nodded.

“Martin Ashford. I gather he left the area after Elsie Jenkins died.”

“Yes, Edie says he took it very hard. He moved up to the Suffolk border; doing more farm work.”

“Mmn.”

“I think it’s quite ironic that people often think conchies are cowards, yet Martin was prepared to hang for a crime he didn’t commit, just to save Elsie.”

Foyle shifted in his chair to reach out for his tea.

“Yes. Although in the current climate, it takes a brave man to say he won’t fight. An even braver man to have an affair with a serviceman’s wife, no matter how unsavoury the husband turns out to be.”

Milner watched Foyle as the latter looked down at his cup. He took a chance on stepping outside the usual conversational boundaries.

“We can’t always dictate where our heart leads us. Sometimes it also requires a leap of faith.”

Foyle’s eyebrows went up as he glanced at Milner, surprised at his poetic turn of phrase. Being in love with Edith Ashford had gone a long way to healing the damage caused by Jane Milner.

With his thoughts including words like ‘in love’, ‘heart’ and ‘damage’, naturally Foyle’s next thought was of Sam. He tried to make his enquiry offhand and mildly disinterested.

“Has…erm…Sam accepted the invitation?”

Milner hid a grin.

“Oh, yes. She said she was looking forward to being out of uniform during daylight hours.”

Foyle blinked slowly as several images of Sam out of uniform trotted across his mind. He successfully put them to one side.

For about four seconds.

“Do her good to get out a bit.”

Privately, Milner agreed with him. It would also give Edie an opportunity to talk to Sam, woman to woman. He finished his cup of tea and stood up.

“I’ll get back to my office and let you get on with those files.”

The dry look he received made it clear that he wasn’t necessarily doing Foyle a favour.

Walking back towards his office a few minutes later, Milner spied Sam, windblown and sporting a little colour in her cheeks, back from the biscuit hunt.

“Success?”

She held a brown paper bag aloft.

“Rather! They’re a bit bashed, and quite mixed up, but edible. I’ll just put them in the biscuit tin to stop them going soft.”

Milner smiled at her enthusiasm, the most cheerful he had seen her lately. He helped her with the tin’s stiff lid.

“You think that they’ll last long enough to get soft?”

“Honestly? Not a chance!”

They both grinned, but Milner saw Sam’s fade at the same time he heard Foyle’s voice behind him.

“Sergeant Milner? Have you seen the…?”

Foyle took in the scene and seemed to ignore it. He finished his question to Milner about a statement missing from his file, and the sergeant answered promptly about it.

“Thank you.”

Foyle turned to Sam and nodded to the biscuits that she had started to transfer into the tin.

“Any going spare?”

His request was mild and polite, and so unlike their recent conversations, that Sam was a little thrown by it.

“Of…of course, Sir.”

Already half way through the act of tipping the biscuits out of the bag, her hand jerked and a couple of biscuit pieces flew from the paper bag, bounced off the table and fell to the floor.

Quick as a flash, Sam bent down to pick up the biscuit and straightened equally fast. She wasn’t going to let her spoils escape. But she dropped them again, although this time on the table, as she reached out to hold on to something to steady herself. She felt woozy, and her hearing faded momentarily.

Milner saw the last vestige of colour leave Sam’s face as she swayed, her hand reaching out blindly for support. Both men stepped towards her, but Foyle was the nearest and he brought his arm up under Sam’s hand so that she could hang on to him. He guided her to a chair.

“Sam? Are you all right?”

Both Foyle and Milner were worried about her white face. Her freckles stood out in stark focus against the alabaster flesh.

Sam nodded, but didn’t try to get up.

“Yes, Sir, I’ll be fine in a minute – I just got up too quickly. This used to happen all the time when I was about fifteen – I grew tall quite quickly and my blood supply couldn’t keep up. It’s nothing to worry about; I’m fine now, honestly. Fit as a fiddle.”

Neither man looked convinced, both looked concerned. Foyle looked at his watch.

“Will you be well enough to drive yourself home, or shall I get Sergeant Brooke to take you?”

Sam shook her head, the colour returning in spades as she flushed at being the centre of attention.

“No, please don’t fuss, I’m really all right. I don’t need to go early or anything.”

As she really did seem to be recovered, the two men exchanged a glance over her head and Milner nodded infinitesimally, accepting the handover as if Foyle had spoken aloud.

The DCS straightened up and looked at his watch.

“Well, I do need to go soon, as I have an engagement later this evening. Can you be ready in ten minutes, Sam?”

She brightened.

“Absolutely, Sir.”

Leaving her in Milner’s capable and safe hands – he was engaged, after all – Foyle returned to his office. He caught up with some recent memos to use up the ten minutes that he has just given Sam, and then he locked up the last two files, before collecting his hat and coat.

As he walked up the corridor to meet up with Sam, he recalled how easily she had been speaking with Milner earlier. She had been relaxed, and smiling, until she spotted him. She had lost the sparkle in her eyes; not just today, but the last two weeks and he knew that he was responsible, but he didn’t know how to fix it. He loved her, she didn’t love him. He couldn’t make her love him, so what could he do?

Act like a spoilt boy and push her even further away by making her unhappy.

He was very mindful of what Hugh had said about finding out what was upsetting Sam; as he had pointed out, the whole station knew that she was not her usual self. He could hardly go to see Hugh and say ‘well, actually it was me that made her miserable’.

Christ, what a mess.

* * * * *

Later that evening, Foyle sat at the table surrounded by his fly making paraphernalia, hoping that the ritual quietness of constructing a new fly would calm him. He had lied quite easily in order to get Sam to take him home early, so that she too could go early. He had no social engagement and no desire to acquire one.

Unless it was with Sam.

Back at her place, already upstairs in bed, Sam was warm and comfortable, but lonely. The drive home with Foyle had been far too quiet, but even her natural exuberance had deserted her. In the old days she would have wangled out of him what he was doing tonight, but she just couldn’t summon up the energy.

I almost don’t care what he’s doing tonight, because he’s not doing whatever it is with me. Which is childish and immature.

Things can’t go on like this; almost fainting at his feet today was a warning. I have to put myself first, then I can sort out where I go from here.

Having made up her mind, Sam was finally able to get some much needed sleep.

* * * * *

Sunday’s roast with the Reid family was a demonstration of what could be done with a back garden that had exchanged wallflowers for cauliflowers and its petunias for peas and potatoes. There was no doubt that Sylvie Reid was a blessing for Hugh, and thankfully, he seemed to be aware of his good fortune.

Foyle had always been aware of the secure contentment that backed his friend and colleague at work and it was a poignant pleasure to witness it at his home. It was therefore quite obvious to the trained eye that Hugh wanted ‘a word’ with him after the meal, judging by the small nods and shared looks exchanged between husband and wife. Foyle bowed to the inevitable and found himself in the front parlour with Hugh. Foyle again declined a cigarette, but Hugh packed and lit a pipe while speaking.

Contrary to his previous approach, Hugh was more direct.

“Have you found out what’s up with Sam?”

Foyle’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

“What? No lead up? No easing your way into the subject? Less than subtle, Hugh.”

“Subtlety never was my strong point, not when I’m worried about a friend.”

At Hugh’s mild rebuke Foyle was apologetic.

“Sorry, Hugh, I didn’t realise that you were that worried about her.”

“Granted, I am concerned about Sam, but it’s you I’m worried about.”

An eyebrow lifted.

“Me? Why?”

The aromatic smell of tobacco smoke reminded Foyle of his father as Hugh puffed on his pipe.

“Is she making things difficult for you at work?”

Foyle looked surprised.

“What on earth are you on about?”

“Look, I understand your reticence to condemn her, but if she’s becoming a problem, we’ll just get her moved. Nothing bad needs to be said, we’ll just say that her work is exemplary, but she needs to move on. No black marks anywhere, nothing on her records.”

Foyle rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the building tension.

“Hugh, please make sense, and quickly.”

Hugh pointed the stem of his pipe at Foyle.

“I’ve been keeping my own eyes open in the last few weeks, and it’s obvious what’s going on between you two.”

Foyle froze, wondering what the hell it was that Hugh had picked up on. The meals away from work? The music recitals? Or, God forbid, the night Andrew came home unexpectedly?

He forced his voice to be calm.

“Going on?”

Hugh waved a hand, disregarding Foyle’s question.

“I don’t suppose for a minute that you encouraged the girl, but, well, I can see why you would feel that you had to knock her back a little, put her in her place, so to speak.”

Foyle wiped a hand over his face, wondering if he’d fallen asleep after the meal and this was some bizarre dream.

“Wait a minute; you think that I had to put her in her place?”

Hugh got up and walked to the window. He looked out of it for half a minute or so, and then looked down at his pipe. His back still to Foyle, he re-lit his pipe.

“Well, of course. If the stupid tart is going to throw herself at a respected member of the police force, just to sleep her way to the top for reasons of -”

Stupid tart? Sam?

Foyle’s expression became stony. He was getting angry and his tone was terse.

“Hugh, we’ve been friends a long time, so I will forgive you once, but don’t ever refer to Samantha Stewart as a tart, stupid or otherwise, again, or you will regret it.”

Hugh moved the lace window net sufficiently to allow him to see up the road.

“Oh, I see she’s already got her claws into you then. That is distressing news. She’s faster than I thought, even for a gold digger, latching onto a mature man with a reputation worth preserving for a tidy sum, no doubt.”

Foyle stood up, and smoothed a hand over his tie in agitation. He could not believe what had got into Hugh; this attack was most unlike him. Friend or not, he wasn’t going to put up with it.

“That’s enough. If anyone should be accused of inappropriate behaviour it ought to be me. I’m the one who asked her to marry me; she is the one who turned me down. Leave the girl alone. She’s done nothing wrong.”

Foyle paused to gather in his temper.

“Now, you had your last chance and didn’t stop. I’m leaving, and you can explain it to Sylvie.”

Hugh Reid turned from the window, and Foyle was astonished to see a wide smile on the older man’s face.

“God, Christopher, I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever admit it.”

“What?”

“You and Sam. Like I said, no time for subtlety. Do you love her?”

Foyle belatedly realised that he had been set up; he had practically given Hugh the ammo himself. A simple trick that he would never have fallen for at work, and shouldn’t have here. It ably demonstrated how much he had been affected.

Resigned to discovery, his eyes closed while he took a moment to kick himself. But underneath it all was the relief that came with the knowledge that it was out in the open.

He looked at Hugh.

“Off the record, to go no further?”

Hugh nodded.

“If it restores good order, no more need be said.”

“Fair enough.”

Foyle remained standing, not comfortable enough to sit back down.

“In answer to your question, yes, I do. Never looked for it, never thought it would happen again. Things came to a head, things were said. She turned me down, quite rightly, better off without me, that’s an end to it.”

Hugh looked at Foyle with exasperation.

“Dammit, man, if you love her why the hel – why have you given up?”

Foyle calmly raised both eyebrows in feigned nonchalance.

“Because she doesn’t love me.”

“Poppycock! Girl’s besotted with you, even I can see that.”

Foyle was not feeling quite so calm now.

Besotted. How well I understand that word.

“Then why did she say ‘no’?”

“Damned if I know.”

He eyed Foyle suspiciously.

“How did you ask her?”

Not willing to mention anything about a baby, Foyle repeated the gist of the proposal.

To his annoyance Hugh burst out laughing.

“No wonder! You have no romance in your soul – ‘might as well’ and ‘seems the best solution’? Wait ‘till I tell Sylvie, she’ll hoot.”

“Great.”

Still grinning, Hugh shook his head.

“No, no, it’s not great, but it still could be. Give it some thought – proper consideration – for the rest of today, and see if you can’t do better than that. Ha! Pity we’re out of scotch.”

Hope surfaced in Foyle’s breast for the first time in what seemed like an age.

“You really think it’s worth a shot?”

“If you don’t at least try, you will be making a mistake that will make you very miserable. And miserable coppers are bad news.”

“Hmm.”

You’re telling me.

* * * * *

Bright and early Monday morning, Sam collected Foyle from Steep Lane. He did invite her in to wait, but she very politely declined and said that she would wait in the car. Foyle was slightly taken aback, but nodded equally politely and said that he would be out shortly.

Sam seemed more like her old self on the drive in, responding well to the occasional conversational gambits thrown out by Foyle, but he felt a reserve between them that hadn’t been there before, not even when they had first met. It was as if she was reminding them both that she was his driver and he was the ‘boss’.

By lunchtime, Foyle was flummoxed. He had offered to stop at a little café on the way back from Bexhill, but Sam said that she was fine and held up a packet of homemade sandwiches. She had never turned down an offer of food before.

Sam sensed his puzzlement, but did nothing to explain her behaviour. He didn’t need to know that cheese sandwiches were the only thing that she felt like eating or that the smell of food cooking made her feel a bit sickly.

Police business picked up, unusual for a Monday, but busy it was. Foyle had no clear and appropriate time to take Sam aside for a proposal, either quick or well thought out. He became increasingly frustrated with his lack of success about finding time alone with Sam, and she assumed that his dismay was with her presence, so she tried to limit the amount of time that he had to spend with her.

Monday came and went. Foyle was withdrawn. Sam was miserable. Milner still wanted to slap them both.

Tuesday arrived. So did Sam. Foyle invited her in to wait, and held his breath when she hesitated. Then, to his surprise, she stepped inside the house and waited in the hall.

Observing her while trying not to be observed doing so was a little problematical, but Foyle was good at his job and highly motivated. She looked pale, but didn’t look quite so much as if she hadn’t slept in a month. She seemed to be studying what she could see of the house, almost as if she were committing it to memory. Foyle picked up his hat and coat, and followed Sam out to the car. Now did not feel like the right time to ask her to be late for work while he asked her to marry him, but he was definitely going to ask her tonight.

“Sam?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“I don’t think it’s fair to pretend that everything is all right between us, and I feel a lot of the responsibility for that by my behaviour. I would very much appreciate it if you would join me for dinner tonight, so that I could apologise properly.”

He saw Sam’s frown in the rear view mirror and forced himself not to panic that she was about to turn down his offer.

“I would like that very much…”

Foyle breathed again.

“…but I’m afraid I must decline. I have another engagement tonight, but it’s quite all right, your apology is accepted. I didn’t want us to not be friends, and I have missed our meals together.”

“Me too.”

Foyle couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. Sam caught his eye in the mirror.

“I’m really sorry. I’d love to have had dinner with you.”

He was encouraged by the fact that she did at least sound genuinely regretful.

“It’s quite all right. Another time, when it suits you.”

Sam was very grateful that they arrived at the station before Foyle could suggest an alternative date, and breathed a sigh of relief when he got out of the car and went on his way, inside. She had been terrified that she would have been too weak to resist a second offer of an evening in Foyle’s company. She brought her hand up to the side window so that her fingers appeared to edge the doorway that Foyle had just stepped through.

“Goodbye, Sir.”

I’ve made my bed, now I must lie in it.

Alone.

* * * * *

Having lunch with Sgt Milner was a different experience to one with Sam, but Foyle found him good company. Injury had matured the young man and the shared experiences of two world wars gave them empathy that other less experienced men lacked. It also meant that neither man wished to talk about the war, so it was a pleasant lunch.

But Foyle still couldn’t wait to get back to the station. He felt edgy, as if something was in the wind, and he knew that Sam was the cause of his anxiety. Her regret about dinner tonight was genuine, he was sure of that, but he kept recalling the look she gave his house this morning.

As if she was committing it to memory; almost as if she didn’t expect to see it again…

Dammit!

Sam had been saying goodbye!

.

.

.

.

TBC
- 9
- 10
- 11
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