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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.

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Disclaimer: Foyle’s War is a copyright product belonging to Anthony Horrowitz. I make no profit here; this fic is for fun only. The fic may be read, copied and downloaded for your personal use, providing I remain listed as the author.

Author: hazeleyes57

Rating: A or 16+ for some adult themes.

Title: Only You (4)

A/N: ‘ship, Foyle/Sam.

                                         Only You (4)

It was only much later that Sam was to acknowledge how terrified she had been that morning when she awoke and found that she couldn’t wake Foyle. She also realised that she had to thank Mrs Flack too, for it was she who called the local doctor out.

While waiting for the doctor to get to the pub, Sam hurriedly washed and dressed before returning to sit and wait with Foyle. Now that she had calmed down, she felt very foolish - of course Foyle was still alive, although ill, and she had woefully overreacted. He still had a high temperature, and was difficult to rouse, but she had managed to coax a grunt from him. Sam wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a damp cloth and was dismayed to feel the heat of him through it. He was much hotter than he had been last night.

Where in Heaven was the doctor?

Sam looked at the smattering of hair across Foyle’s chest, visible where the pyjama jacket had come undone. Despite her anxiety, her thoughts took her straight back to last night - to what had happened in this room, and in this bed.

Without her permission, Sam’s mind conjured up exactly what it felt like to run her fingers through those short crisp chest hairs. She supposed that she ought to feel some remorse for the loss of her virginity without benefit of wedlock, but she looked upon it from the viewpoint that she had not thrown it away frivolously, but had given it with love to a man that she admired and who had treated her with respect. Many married women couldn’t necessarily have said the same.

There was a quiet knock on the door and Sam hurried to open it. Mrs Flack stood on the landing with a surprisingly young man for someone who was the village doctor.

“Here you are, my dear. Mrs Foyle, this is Doctor Tamworth.”

The doctor and Sam nodded ‘hello’ in greeting, but didn’t shake hands.

Mrs Flack turned to the doctor.

“Simon, if either of you need anything, please let me know, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Sam opened the door wider to let the doctor into the room as Mrs Flack quickly disappeared back along the landing. She had a full oven to watch over as well as a full house.

Doctor Tamworth went straight to Foyle, glancing back at the window as he did so. He placed his black bag on the floor beside the bed before looking up at Sam.

“Mrs Foyle, would you be kind enough to open the curtains sufficiently for me to see what’s what?”

Sam hurried to do his bidding – anything to help.

“Sorry, I wasn’t certain if the light was too much for Christopher.”

“No, he should be all right. Very few things have photophobia as a symptom.”

Sam wasn’t sure what the doctor meant by that, so she remained quiet while he examined his patient.

“How long has he had the temperature, and have you noticed any other symptoms?”

Sam came forward to the opposite side of the bed. She felt disadvantaged in her stockinged feet and dearly wished that her shoes were dry enough to wear.

“Christopher was fine yesterday during the day. I first realised about the temperature after we came up to the room and…we were…um…in bed. He did seem a little off – earlier in the day, he said some things that he would never have said if he wasn’t a little under the weather.”

Doctor Tamworth raised an enquiring eyebrow at this, but didn’t comment.

“Aches, pains, chills?”

Sam nodded.

“Yes, I think so. He did say that he was cold a couple of times. Tired, too. It just came on so suddenly.”

Tamworth hmm’d, looking thoughtful. He listened to his patient’s chest with his stethoscope, moving over the upper torso and checking both lungs. He rolled Foyle over on to his side and listened over his back before laying him back down. He then checked his eyes, which earned him a feeble moan of protest from the patient. Sam was grateful to have heard any response at all. The doctor slipped a thermometer under Foyle’s tongue and held it there.

“What does your husband do, Mrs Foyle?”

“He’s a police officer. Detective Chief Superintendent, actually. We’re here on -”

Sam was about to say ‘on a case’ but suddenly remembered that they were also pretending to be married, and that thought would, she supposed, have been at the forefront of a newly married woman’s mind. She looked at the Doctor, trying not to blush. She finished lamely.

“We’re not local.”

Doctor Tamworth smiled with understanding; he had already been filled in.

“I see. Has anyone back home got influenza?”

Sam looked up in surprise.

“’Flu? I’m not sure, but two of the constables are off sick with very bad colds. We’re quite short on staff.”

The doctor nodded again as he took the thermometer out of his patent’s mouth and peered at the mercury level.

“Well, I’m afraid that you’ll be a even shorter on staff for a while. Mr Foyle has a temperature of a hundred and one, and the ‘flu in my opinion. He’ll be quite poorly for a while yet.”

Sam’s distress was visible. She knew that some people died with influenza.

“Can’t you give him any medicine? Anything to help him at all?”

“There is no point in giving him antibiotics; influenza is not caused by a bacterium. I’ve been reading up about influenza in recently released medical journals, and it’s caused by a virus.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about them. They were talking about it back in the MTC. Something about immunising the troops because they could very easily transmit ‘flu due to the conditions in which they worked.”

The doctor looked at Sam with more respect. He was impressed that she had even heard of a virus. He looked back to his oblivious patient.

“I’m afraid that antibiotics are only of use in cases of opportunistic secondary infections. Hopefully your husband won’t need them, but we’ll keep an eye on him this week.”

He turned back to Sam and looked at her more closely. There was a decent bruise forming on her jaw, presumably from the car accident yesterday. She had obviously dressed in a hurry, and had not stopped to brush her hair or apply make-up. She appeared to be quite unaware of her personal state in her concern for her husband. Some of his patients’ wives were far more concerned about their own appearance in front of him than their husbands’ health.

“Forgive me asking a personal question, Mrs Foyle, but how are you feeling?”

Sam looked startled, and then reflexively put up a hand to smooth her hair. She supposed that she must look an absolute fright.

“Me? Oh, tickety-boo. ‘Very robust’ was our family doctor’s favourite motto about me. I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

She blushed when she realised how her sentence could be misunderstood, but then her colour deepened when it dawned on her that she would not have been misunderstood at all.

“That is, Christopher was restless during the night. I feel quite well at the moment.”

Hiding his amusement, Doctor Tamworth packed his black bag and closed it.

“That’s good, let’s hope it stays that way.”

He paused, obviously picking his words with care.

“Again, a very personal question, but I have to ask. Is there any chance that you could be expecting?”

Whatever Sam was expecting, it wasn’t this question. She looked completely blank for a moment.

In the absence of any immediate answer, the doctor elaborated. It wouldn’t be the first time he had dealt with an already pregnant bride.

“The only reason that I’m asking is to establish whether or not you should be the one to nurse your husband. If you are pregnant I would have to advise you to keep your distance for the sake of the baby. It would not be good for either of you to risk catching an infection, although to be honest, you’ve probably already been exposed.”

Sam had recovered her composure sufficiently to nod once. The idea of a possible pregnancy never crossed her mind last night.

“Of course, that makes perfect sense. However, I’m not, as far as I know.”

The doctor nodded once, not wishing to say ‘good’ aloud.

For Sam, the words ‘as far as I know’ seemed to linger in the room. Her teeth worried absently at her lower lip while she worked out just how careless she had been. About nine or ten days ago she had ‘finished’ for this month, so that meant…wasn’t it the middle of the month that was dangerous? Or was it the end? No, it was the middle. Probably.

Sam swallowed the lump in her throat with an audible gulp.

Oh dear. Very definitely oh dear.

Sam suddenly registered that the doctor was still looking at her and gave him a reasonably bright smile under the circumstances. She gestured to the window and they both moved away from the bed to avoid disturbing Foyle.

“Well, then. Please tell me what I can do for Christopher; what to expect and what to look out for whilst he is ill.” Her spine stiffened as she summoned her reserves of bravery. “After that, I have a couple of questions of my own.”

“Very well, Mrs Foyle. First, keep him hydrated – plenty of fluids - that’s the most important thing. Let him sleep as much as he wants to, and try to get sleep yourself when you can – much less chance of going down with something if you are well rested yourself. Next…”

Doctor Tamworth went on to explain a few things to look out for, and when he had finished he waited for Sam to ask her questions.

Despite her difficulty in broaching the subject with a man, the need for answers overrode her embarrassment. She really didn’t think that growing up helping out on her uncle’s farm was going to provide adequate information now.

Shortly afterwards, having seen the doctor out, Sam checked that Foyle was okay to leave for a few minutes before she sneaked out along the landing. She needed a short time to compose herself and the bathroom was the only place she could be guaranteed some privacy.

The small shaving mirror on the window sill reflected a pale image of her face. She didn’t look any different to any other morning despite what she considered to be her manifestly different circumstances. Same hair, same eyes, same teeth, same Sam.

But not the same person at all.

She sat down on the edge of the cast iron roll top bath and looked at her stockinged feet. In the cold light of the day all her father’s dire warnings surfaced to nag at her. She recalled the day that he had come to Hastings to tell her he wanted her to come home. When she had joked about the phrase ‘up with the lark and to bed with a WREN’ there had been a distinct cooling of the atmosphere around their table. In a foolish attempt to make light of her father’s comment about girls from the village who had got into ‘difficulties’, she had informed him that there was no chance that she would be PWP – pregnant without permission. The pained expression on his face had left her in no doubt that he felt that her slide into moral decline was already too far advanced. Only Foyle’s intervention later had saved the day, by persuading Sam’s father that she was helping the War Effort.

Sam dreaded the idea of going back home for anything other than a visit. She loved her parents dearly, but her life had been deadly dull. The vicar’s daughter had to behave decorously at all times. Her mother’s long running but vague illness kept Sam busy, but it wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life. She wanted to count for something, to go the extra mile and be…amazing.

Sam rested a hand on her flat stomach. Maybe her chance to be something amazing was unintentionally closer than she thought. She clasped her hands together in the age old gesture of prayer and closed her eyes,

“Dear Lord, I know that you are being kept busy at the moment so I’ll try to be brief. Please keep my family and friends safe as best as you can, and if possible I’d really appreciate you keeping an extra eye out for Christopher; he means so much to me and he’s really not very well. I know that I’m probably not being seen in the best light at the moment, what with not saving myself for my wedding night, but I know you can see into my heart and you know how I feel. If you could see your way clear to helping him get better, I’d be most grateful and I’d try not to ask any more favours. Thank you, Amen.”

Sam opened her eyes and then just as quickly shut them again.

“Oh, just a quick P.S. I do consider children to be a blessing, I really do, but could you see your way clear to not blessing me just yet? Thank you again, Amen.”

Regardless of her situation this minute, Sam could not bring herself to regret a single moment about last night and she wouldn’t change any of it if she could. Christopher had been tender, considerate and loving. He had made her feel wonderful.

Her head came up when she heard a quiet tap on the bathroom door. She crossed the floor, unbolted the door and opened it. Mrs Flack stood outside with a tray braced on her left arm.

“There you are dear. Simon popped his head in before leaving so I’ve brought you and Mr Foyle something to eat. Can’t carry on through the day without a decent meal inside you, now can you?”

Sam’s response was not required, but she shook her head anyway before following her hostess back along the landing.

“I expect in a small village you all know the doctor quite well?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve known Simon since he was born. Lovely baby he was, almost pretty. I was very pleased when Kay, my eldest girl, married him and made him family. That was just before the war started. Kay was in a terrible state when the men started being called up. Simon wanted to go though, he really did. They need doctors.”

Sam held the bedroom door open while Mrs Flack negotiated the tray through the gap.

“But he didn’t go?”

Mrs Flack straightened up from the small table where she had placed the tray. She looked at Foyle, casting a motherly eye over him, and then smiled at Sam.

“No, bless him. Rare blood group, AB negative, they won’t let him go over in case he gets wounded and needs blood. Kay was so relieved. She’ll want to keep him close, especially now that they are having a little one.”

Sam smile was warm and genuine, if a little distracted, as she was keenly eyeing up the cooked breakfast on one of the plates.

“Oh, he never said.”

Mrs Flack smiled.

“They don’t know yet, but I’m right, you’ll see, I always am. Now, is there anything else I can get you? I’ve brought you a hearty breakfast to help keep your strength up; a jug of water and a bowl of broth for your husband - if he can manage it to eat. I’ve also made a note to go and get some of Len’s old night shirts out of hiding. While they are old, they are comfortable and I think you’ll be needing a few changes of clothing for Mr Foyle over the next few days. Oh, and I’ll bring up fresh warm water and a clean cloth for you.”

Sam was slightly taken aback – but impressed - by the breadth and depth of preparation demonstrated here.

“You have been so thorough, I can’t – we can’t thank you enough.”

Although Mrs Flack waved aside her gratitude, Sam could see that she was touched by her thanks.

“None of that now. You just tuck into your breakfast and get your husband well, that will be all the thanks that I need.”

Sam nodded; there wasn’t much else that she could say.

Lily Flack turned back just as she was leaving, her hand on the door.

“As I mentioned yesterday, we are full now, so I’m afraid that I’ll be busy most of the time, but if you need help or a break, please call one of us. Being at this end of the pub, it’s nice and quiet, you shouldn’t be too bothered by anyone else.”

Sam murmured her thanks one last time as her hostess left, closing the door behind her and leaving Sam alone with Foyle. As he appeared to be sleeping for the moment, breakfast called with a stronger voice and Sam tucked in, having worked up quite an appetite.

Fifteen minutes later breakfast was a dirty plate and a happy memory. Sam leaned back in the chair, replete for the moment. As soon as she had finished her cup of tea she took the used things down to the kitchen to save Mrs Flack a trip upstairs.

One worry sorted, Sam was on her way back upstairs when Mr Flack called after her. She stopped on the stair as he informed her that the Wolseley was in the yard behind the pub and in reasonable working order. Or, he added with a small grin, that it would be if it had its rotor arm. He handed the vital piece of the engine back to Sam for safekeeping, and said that the paperwork was ready whenever she had a moment. He also handed her a pile of striped flannel material that he had under his arm and said that it was from the missus. Sam thanked him and said that she would see to the papers and payment as soon as she had checked on her patient. Mr Flack said that there was no hurry and he would see her later.

Happier now that her car was back and working, Sam returned to her room; as she did so, she passed several of the other guests, gently resplendent in their Sunday best. It seemed that Mrs Flack’s ‘do’ was a large wedding party. In her drab uniform skirt and shirt, Sam felt a little like a moth in a crowd of butterflies so she was more than glad to get back upstairs.

To her guilty dismay, she entered the bedroom to see that in her absence Foyle had become agitated, and had obviously tried to throw off his blankets. When she moved closer to the bed, Sam could see the sheen of perspiration on his face and saw that he was intermittently shivering.

As she leaned over to replace the blankets, Sam heard Foyle mutter something, but she couldn’t make it out. She moved closer still to try to hear, then nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand thrust out and clutched at Sam’s arm. It was a lucky shot; he certainly wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were glazed and unfocused and the hand on her shirt sleeve was hot. She gently freed herself and picked up the flannel to wipe his face. Foyle leaned into its damp warmth like a puppy seeking its mother. As she gently dabbed, it occurred to Sam that the flannel probably felt soothingly cool to him, so she wiped his neck and upper chest as well, noting as she did that the pyjama top was damp with perspiration. She could see what Mrs Flack had meant by needing the old nightshirts.

Putting down the flannel cloth and wiping her hands, Sam turned to the pile Mr Flack had handed to her. She shook out the topmost bundle and smiled at the old fashioned nightshirt. It looked like a large striped shirt with buttons up the front. Sam quickly undid the buttons and laid the material on her side of the bed. She then undid the last couple of buttons on Foyle’s pyjama jacket and with much effort managed to get his left arm out of its sleeve. She gently cajoled and persuaded Foyle to turn onto his right side, then grabbed for the dry shirt. She put his left arm in the new nightwear and pushed both the new and old material under Foyle’s right side where he rested on the bed. She then rolled him back over – by which time she was sweating herself – and pulled the damp pj top off his right arm. Thankfully, Mr Flack being a large man, there was plenty of material free to easily get Foyle’s right arm into the right sleeve and then do up the buttons. Sam rested a moment from her labours, shoving a strand of hair back from her forehead, and contemplated her next move.

The pyjama bottoms.

“Right. Cord tie at the top. I remember.”

Notwithstanding the fact that it was less than twenty four hours since they had last been removed and - at least in part - by her, the current circumstances were quite different and gave her cause for pause. Muttering under her breath, she slid her hands under the blankets and felt around Foyle’s waist for the cord tie. She found it almost immediately and gave one end a tug to undo it.

Nothing happened.

She tugged harder. Still nothing happened. She peeked under the blankets and saw that she had just tightened a knot. She tutted in frustration. She would have to leave the blankets back as she worked on the knot. She glanced at Foyle’s face to see if he had any idea about what she was doing. Thankfully, his eyes were shut.

“Oh, Samantha Jane, this is for his own good and you should stop being so foolish. There is nothing that you haven’t already seen and besides, he’s probably too ill to notice. So stop getting worked up over nothing. More to the point, stop getting worked up. He’s a sick man, for goodness sake.”

Finally, after two fraught minutes, the cord tie was undone; Sam tugged and pulled on the pyjamas until eventually they were on the floor besides her.

Sam looked at Foyle.

“I have to say, dear Sir, that they came off a lot easier last night.”

She covered him back up with the blankets, adjusting the sheet across his chest. She picked up the discarded pyjamas and placed them over the back of the other chair. No point bundling them in the laundry bag until they had dried.

As it was by now after nine in the morning, Sam made her way back downstairs again to look for a telephone. Mr and Mrs Flack were not to be seen, so Sam slipped outside to get her bearings – she had not been able to see much of the village on their arrival – and was pleased to discover that there was a ‘phone box across the green, just outside the Post Office. Five minutes later she was speaking to Milner, and quickly brought him up to speed on most of their situation, missing some of the developments for obvious reasons.

“…so I would appreciate it if you would keep the ‘Mrs Foyle’ thing under wraps…yes, I know, it was all I could think of on the spur of…are you laughing? That’s not fair, Paul, Mr Foyle is very unwell.”

Sam listened for a few moments.

“Yes, I should think so too, you’re being very cheeky. Now, the doctor thinks that Mr Foyle will be at least on the mend in a week to ten days, but probably able to travel by the end of the week, if he pulls through without complications. Yes, I thought that too, but he said something about secondary infections. Yes absolutely, I’ll call if anything changes. What will happen now about the case and our witness?”

Sam’s gaze took on a distant focus as she listened.

“Confessed? So the witness isn’t to be interviewed? Well, I wished he’d done it a day or two earlier. No, I – drat, there’s the pips! I’ll telephone in a few days. Bye, goodbye!”

Sam put down the receiver and left the phone box. She had decided against speaking to her parents just yet; her father in particular had a way of knowing what she didn’t want him to know, and she knew for certain that she wanted to keep this time just between her and Christopher, at least for now. She hurried back to the Crown, pausing downstairs only long enough to pick up a couple of very out of date magazines from the snug so that she had something to read upstairs. She had packed a book, just in case the Boss would have been busy in the evening, but it was a romance novel and its flowery soft focus frippery paled into insignificance when compared to the real thing and she had lost the motivation to read it now.

She trotted upstairs, humming a tune under her breath. Her mind refused to dwell on any possibility other than that of Foyle’s complete recovery. He must get well, because for her there would be no joy in her life without him.

X   X   X    X

Foyle was dreaming. He did not know that he was dreaming, indeed, for him - if he had been consciously aware – it probably would better have been described as a nightmare. A nightmare of fire and ice where he was constantly battered by extremes. At first he was desperately cold, shivering, and unable to find respite from the bone aching chills, then he would fade into a deeper consciousness only to surface later into a raging heat that sapped his strength and soaked his body.

As if this wasn’t enough he was tormented by visions of Rosalind and Sam. Terrible visions of suffering; Rosalind in extremis with typhoid, the illness that was to claim her life and leave him with a ten year old son to raise alone. Sam, so pale and ill, lying in a hospital bed and waiting to die from the anthrax infection.

No! No, she didn’t die! Sam is alive.

Foyle tossed and turned in the bed, clutching at the bedding that held him trapped. He moaned in pain at the ache in his heart as well as his limbs.

Young, she is so young, please don’t let her die!

The ethereal Sam floated up from the hospital bed, her flowing auburn hair stark against her white skin. She retreated from him, backing away until he could no longer reach her. Her look of deep sorrow haunted him. He could have saved her!

Sam!

Rosalind’s pallid corpse lifted from the bed, her arms outstretched, her fingers claw-like and grasping, wanting to clutch him to her wasted torso, to gather him in death as she had in life.

No! She wasn’t like that! Rosalind loved me! You’re not her! Go away! Dear God, stop this torment!

Just as Foyle thought he would be taken by the vision, his body took him away from the turmoil and shut down to rest; not unconscious, but not consciously aware.

X   X    X     X

Sam walked softly to the big bed, her shoes making no sound on the carpeted floor. She checked that Foyle was comfortable and that his nightshirt was still dry. She placed her fingers on his forehead to check his temperature, then touched the back of her fingers to his cheek in a soft caress.

Foyle turned towards her hand, and Sam was delighted at his response until she realised that he seemed quite unaware of her presence. He was mumbling under his breath, and his agitation increased. He mumbled something she didn’t quite catch.

“Christopher?”

“Please don’t let her die!”

Sam hardly recognised the agonised voice of her boss, friend and lover.

She paled as she realised that he must be thinking of Rosalind, his late wife. He must have loved her so much to feel the amount of pain she heard in his cry. She put a hand on his shoulder as he clutched at the blankets.

“Christopher? It’s me, Sam. Can you hear me?”

Foyle thrashed his head from side to side as if in denial. Tears slid from his eyes.

“Rosalind loved me – you’re not her, go away, dear God, stop this torment!”

Sam felt the warmth drain from her limbs. She felt sick and faint. She stumbled back from the bed and slid to the floor beside it, her face resting on the edge of the eiderdown.

Dear Heaven what had she done?

Had she completely misread him last night? Was he thinking of Rosalind all along? Had he confused a woman in his bed with the woman he had slept beside for all the years he was married?

It didn’t bear thinking about but she couldn’t stop herself.

One thing was perfectly plain to Sam. Any thought she had about a future with Christopher had just evaporated.

How could she possibly share him with a love that never died?

TBC.
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Only You