Only You

Disclaimer: Foyle’s War and all the characters therein are owned by Anthony Horowitz and subject to copyright. No infringement is intended. All original characters are mine.

Author: hazeleyes57

 Rating: NC17 eventually, but this chapter is safe for all.

 ‘Ship: Christopher and Samantha

                               Only You

 

 

“Go on, admit it, we’re lost.”

 

 

 

 

“Not lost, exactly. Just sort of…misplaced, slightly.”

 

 

 

Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle cast a weary look of mild disbelief at his driver. She was peering out of the rain-lashed windscreen of the police Wolseley, and, on the surface at least, appeared not to have noticed his attention.

Her gloved hands in the correct ‘ten to two’ position on the wheel, Samantha Stewart was concentrating hard on her task: staying on the road. It was almost eleven at night and as the car’s headlights were shielded to only allow minimal light to escape, seeing where the road began and ended was exceptionally difficult. There were no markings on the narrow ‘B’ road, and the last four sign posts had their names removed to foil any invading German’s attempt to travel.  It was also foiling theirs.

 The weather was filthy and periodically there had been signs of sleet among the big fat droplets of water hitting the car. Sam was praying that the predicted snow held off until they reached their destination. Beside her, the Boss stirred again.

 “How are we doing for petrol?”

 Sam glanced automatically at the gauge and tried not to wince.

 “Oh, not too bad, but a top up would be good, soon.”

 Foyle leaned over slightly and looked for himself.

 “Mmmn.”

 “It looks worse than it is. There’s always a little bit extra in the tank.”

As if to call her a liar, the engine coughed and stuttered, but then smoothed over again. Sam’s look to Foyle was a little less confident.

"A very little bit.”

 

Foyle folded the useless map back into its packet. Until they had a known point of reference, it was not going to be of any help. He hid it, and the torch he had been using to read it, under the seat, away from any cursory glance into the car.

 

 

“Well, the next village we come to, we’ll stop and ask for directions at the police station, failing that, the pub. If we can’t convince them that we aren’t German spies, this country will be safe for ever. After that, we shall enquire about fuel.”

 

 

“Just so, Sir. I’ve brought the petrol coupons and the authorisation chit. If there is any fuel, we should be able to get it.”

 

 

Foyle nodded once, but not with his customary vigour.

 

 

“Mmmn.”

 

 

Sam glanced at him.

 

 

“Are you all right?”

 

 

It was difficult to tell in the darkness about his appearance, but he didn’t sound his usual self to Sam. Out of the corner of her eye saw him wave a hand to dismiss her concerns.

 

 

“Yes…no, it’s nothing; I’m probably just a little queasy from trying to read a map by torchlight. It’s all right.”

 

 

Sam was not convinced, but she let the subject drop, as she had another distraction.

 

 

It was beginning to snow.

 

 

Foyle felt mildly nauseated and rather shivery. There had been several staff unwell with bad colds recently, and he hoped that he wasn’t about to join their number.

 

 

Several minutes later, just as he had started to drift off to sleep, he started with concern as he felt the back end of the car start to slide. The car straightened almost immediately. Sam’s apology followed just as quickly.

 

 

“Sorry Sir, patch of slushy ice I should think. You’d better hang onto the handle for a while, just in case.”

 

 

Taking hold of the door handle as a precaution was an irritating if sensible intrusion into Foyle’s slumber, but he trusted Sam’s judgement on all manner of car related things.

 

 “How are you holding up, Sam?”

 

He saw the brief glint of a smile reflected from the dash lights.

 

 

“Oh, tickety-boo, thank you. Not tired at all.”

 

 

“Good, hopefully we won’t -”

 

 

“Heavens!”

 

 

Sam’s cry was accompanied by a swerve to the left. On a sunny dry day it would have meant a bumpy ride on the grass verge for a minute, but in the increasingly icy conditions the heavy Wolseley slid off the road completely and rumbled over the rough grass, heading for the trees that were set back from the road. Foyle could tell that Sam was braking hard, but the car was not slowing quickly enough on the downward incline – if anything, they were gathering speed as they skidded on the wet grass.

 

 

“Hold on!”

 

 Sam’s good advice was redundant, as Foyle was already hanging on like grim death with his left hand and had both feet braced in the leg well. He put his right arm out in an instinctive gesture to try to prevent Sam from injury. As the trees loomed very close he shut his eyes and tucked his head down.

 A fraction of a second later, despite Sam’s best efforts, the car hit one of the trees. Both driver and passenger ricocheted forward; Sam hit Foyle’s arm and the steering wheel with her chest and face, and Foyle butted his head on the dashboard. He saw stars for several moments but didn’t think that he had actually lost consciousness. His first coherent thought was for Sam.

 “Sam? Sam! Talk to me!”

 Sam sat up groggily, her face and chest making her painfully aware that they had not liked that little detour.

“Umm, yes, I’m here, I’m okay.”

 “Thank the good Heavens.”

 Sam rallied quickly and despite their situation, Foyle was amused at her indignation.

“Honestly, this is just too bad. I think someone should find a way to put a flight harness in cars, so people don’t get banged about like this!”

 Foyle’s tone was droll.

 “That’s a very good idea; I’ll suggest it as soon as we get home. May I have my arm back?”

 Sam gave him a baffled look until he briefly moved his arm. Her gaze shot to her front, which currently cradled his hand, pinning it to the steering wheel. She hadn’t noticed that he had tried to brace her before the accident.

 “Oh!”

 Sam froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights, fascinated by the picture of his hand nestled between her breasts. She felt the colour run up her face and knew that he would think that she was embarrassed. She hoped that that was all he would think. She managed to lean back and release him.

 “Oh, gosh, sorry. Are you okay?”

 Foyle rubbed his hand, which in truth had not been any more than lightly bruised, obviously having been protected by its location between…umm…

 “Fine, yes, I’m fine. Small headache, bruising. Fine.”

 “But you’re bleeding… your forehead.”

 Sam took out her handkerchief and handed it to Foyle. He dabbed at his wound and inspected the square of white cotton for an indication of the degree of damage. He thought from the evidence that the wound was probably not mortal.

 “I’ll live. Are you injured?”

 He peered at Sam as he held the handkerchief to his head a little longer.

 “Jolly sore face, I think I’ll get a bruise on my jaw, but I don’t think anything is broken.”

 Foyle had noticed her high colour even in the near darkness as the car’s headlights were still on and the light from one was reflecting back from a pale tree trunk. He ignored the flush for her sake, assuming that she was just flustered. He found it quite endearing. He looked out of the window instead and noted that the snow was half rain again.

 “Good, couldn’t go anywhere without you. Will the car start? Can we try to reverse out of here?”

 Sam looked out of the windscreen at the bonnet of the car. From where she was seated the damage didn’t look too extensive, but that didn’t mean anything. She turned the key in the ignition and surreptitiously crossed her fingers as the engine tried to turn over. Eventually she had to give up.

   “It’s not catching. It could be that we are simply so low on petrol that the angle of the car has moved the fuel to the ‘wrong’ end of the tank.”

 Foyle looked at Sam with an expression that perfectly conveyed his feelings about why the car wouldn’t start, plus his request for suggestions as to what she thought they should be doing next.

Sam had no trouble interpreting this expression; three years of working with the enigmatic policeman had given her a greater than average insight to the workings of his fine mind. She soldiered on.

 “Right. Car won’t start. We try to find somewhere to get petrol and preferably a tow to help us out of here, or we spend the night in a cold car and look for a tow and fuel in the morning.”

 Foyle looked out of the car window and might have sighed. He reached behind him for his overcoat and pulled it into the front.

 “Stay here, I’ll get the cases from the boot. You have your coat?”

 

Sam nodded, but stopped quickly when she realised that it hurt.

 

 

“It’s also in the boot. Do you think we should take the suitcases? I know we only brought enough for the overnight stop, but it might be heavy going with two cases in this weather.”

 

 

Foyle paused. He did not want to leave the cases in the car overnight.

 

 

“We’ll take them anyway. We might need them.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 

Foyle got out of the car and put his coat and hat on as quickly as possible. He didn’t have much trouble in getting behind the Wolseley as the grass was thick and not too muddy. In short order he handed Sam’s coat to her and went back for the two medium sized suitcases. It was raining more than it was snowing now, but it was a moot point about which was worse. They were going to get soaked either way, and he was already concerned about how unwell he felt.

 

 

 Just as they were about to leave Sam turned back to the car and lifted the bonnet. She fiddled about underneath for a moment, closed the cover and then joined Foyle. She showed him what she had in her hand.

 

 

“Just immobilising the car, just in case Jerry turns up with a jerry can.”

 

Her tone was quite jaunty at her witticism, and Foyle summoned the energy to play the game.

“That was appalling. I may have to dock your wages.”

Sam grinned.

“You leave my wages alone and I’ll carry my own case.”

“You can carry your own case anyway. What have you got in here? Encyclopaedia Britannica?”

 “Just a few feminine essentials, you said to pack light for one night.”

 “Just one night in a small country hotel, not somewhere that requires you to bring your own sink.”

 Sam took her case from him and started off up the incline. Her shoes did slip periodically, but in general progress was made and within a few minutes both she and the Chief were standing on the road, slightly out of breath. Sam looked around, clearly searching for something.

Foyle followed her look.

 

“What is it?”

 

 

Sam frowned.

 

 

“Well, I did wonder if the chap on the bicycle would have at least stopped to check that we were all right before clearing off. He was jolly lucky that I missed him in the middle of the road like that.”

 

Foyle’s face cleared.

“Ah, I did wonder. Not like you to react to nothing.”

 

“I’d far rather be driving than walking in this weather, but, there it is.”

 

 

Sam hefted her case and pulled her coat lapels up around her neck. She waited for Foyle to decide which way to go. He looked up and down the road, then he turned to face the way they had been going before their impromptu departure from the road.

 

Sam fell in beside him, automatically taking the side to the left of Foyle and nearest the grass verge.

Foyle could almost hear the cogs working in his driver’s brain and he waited to see how long it would take her to say something. In the mean time, he wondered, realistically, how much further he was capable of going in his present condition. He really did not feel very well.

A minute or so later, Foyle’s patience paid off.

“Sir?”

 “Yes, Sam?”

 

“Assuming that we are going this way because we already know there was no village for at least four or five miles behind us, I think it’s fair to say that the cyclist must have come from somewhere close by, relatively speaking, so we can’t be far from civilisation of some sort.”

 

 

“Mmmn.”

 

 Sam turned to look at Foyle, who, like her, was leaning into the rain to try to shield his head and neck from the worst of it.

 

“Well, from the brief glimpse I got of him, the chap on the bicycle was relatively dry. I’d say that we’re closer to salvation than we think.”

 

 

Foyle agreed with her assessment. A gust of wind blew droplets of water into the back of his neck and he felt them slide under his shirt collar. It was not pleasant.

 

“That is a comforting thought.” Foyle looked at his watch, only just able to make out the time. “Our cyclist was probably on his way home from the pub, and if he’d had a skinfull, that might explain why he didn’t stop – he may not have even realised that we’d gone off the road. He can’t have come very far either - it’s certainly not taking us long to get wet.”

“No, it’s not.” Sam smiled. “Look on the bright side, Sir. You’re not wearing a skirt.”

 Sam saw Foyle smile with sympathy as he glanced at her wet legs; it was all right for him, he couldn’t feel the stockings absorbing the rain and transferring down into her shoes. Her feet were squelching unpleasantly with every step she took.

“Just as well. You look a lot better in one than I would.”

 

Sam smiled.

 

“I should hope so, Sir.”

Privately Sam felt a stir of alarm. He would not have made a comment like that if he were feeling one hundred percent. He might have thought it, he might even have conveyed that thought with an expressive look, but he wouldn’t have spoken so frankly if he were well.

 

“How is your head?”

 

 

“Aches. But I’m not seeing double. I don’t think I’m too seriously damaged.”

 

Sam swapped her case to the opposite hand and flexed her fingers to restore the circulation in the newly freed fingers. Maybe he had a point about her packing, but one never knew what one might need for an overnight stop.

 

“Good. I’d hate to have to go back to the MTC.”

 

 

Foyle didn’t say anything, but he filed the information away, as was his habit. He recalled the occasion when he was suspended from his post during an investigation and Sam had been sent back to the MTC by his stand-in; it had given him great personal satisfaction to go and get her back. He hadn’t looked too closely into his motives at that time. Perhaps it was not a good time to look too closely into them now.

 

 

Belatedly he wondered about the wisdom of coming all the way out here to

 

East Anglia by car to follow a lead when by rights he should have come alone on a train. He shouldn’t have put Sam in this situation, but they were so short of staff that he’d had no real choice.

 

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought you with me.”

 

 

It was selfish of me.

 

 

Sam looked up quickly, getting a splat of water in an eye.

 

 

Where did that come from?

 

She was not referring to the raindrop.

Did he regret bringing her?

“Why? Because I ran the car off the road?”

 

Foyle turned to her in surprise.

 

 

“Good Heavens no, you did your best in a difficult situation – it’s down to you that our mystery cyclist survived. No, no. I meant that it was selfish of me to come by car instead of train.”

 

 

Sam frowned as she tried to recall their conversation about travel verbatim.

 

 

“You said yourself that the train would have to be met because the village was too far away from the station to easily walk it, and the local police couldn’t guarantee that you would be met at the other end.”

 

 

“Even so…”

 

 

Foyle let the matter drop. He was too close to revealing the fact that he enjoyed her company and would have missed travelling with her had he gone by train. What on earth was the matter with him?  

 

 

Sam swung her suitcase in front of her body and clasped the handle with both hands to try to give her fingers a rest by sharing the load. It didn’t work, and she managed to bash her knees as she took each step. She transferred the case back to one hand.

 

 

They walked in silence for a while, but it was the companionable silence of friends, where neither of them felt the need to speak for the sake of it. Foyle was privately amused by the quiet – he didn’t know Sam was capable of it.

 

 

After about half an hour, both of them were physically miserable. They were cold, wet and tired, and sick to death of the sleety rain stinging their faces. They were both wondering just how much further shelter was likely to be.

 

 

Sam suddenly stopped dead, her head cocked to one side. When Foyle went to speak, she urgently shushed him.

 

 

He raised one eyebrow, but remained silent, and tried to hear what she could hear.

 

 

After a minute or so, the sound came again, from ahead of them, and this time Foyle heard it too. The sound was familiar, but out of context. He frowned as he tried to recreate the sound in his mind and remember where he had heard it before.

 

 

They started walking again, more quickly now that they had a direction. Sam whispered, just in case they heard it again.

 

 

 “It sounded like glass bottles; a sort of dull clinking - not against other glass bottles.”

 

 

Foyle cursed his befuddled mind; he knew that the sound was one he had heard before. He kept thinking of the local pub in

 

Hastings; its roaring fire in particular, but that was probably because he was so cold.

 

“Yes, glass and…wood…yes, glass and wood. Wooden crates! It’s the empty beer bottles in crates – we must be near a public house.”

 

 

Sam was gleeful.

 

“Terrific! It can’t be all that far. Come on, Sir, best foot forward!”

 

Foyle smiled at her enthusiasm, wishing that he had half her energy. He wasn’t sure that either of his feet were his ‘best’ at the moment.

 

 

They hurried as quickly as they could carrying two suitcases, and within a minute they could see the dark silhouette of a thatched roof against the cloudy night sky.

 

 

“I can smell wood smoke. They have a fire, oh simple bliss.”

 

Foyle seconded Sam’s thoughts as they approached the path to the porch with a small but solid looking wooden door at the front of the public house. The barely discernable lettering on the wall declared this to be The Crown Inn. No lights were visible anywhere; their blackout was complete.

 Sam was in front and it was she who knocked and then tentatively tried the big ring handle. The door opened on well-oiled hinges to more darkness. The porch was draped with extra blackout curtains, creating a divide between the outside and the inside – so even with the door open no light should escape. They both stepped inside, cases too, grateful to be out of the rain, and once the outer door was shut, Foyle pulled aside the curtain and stepped into warmth and the brightness of unaccustomed light. Sam followed him and they both stood, blinking, waiting for their eyes to adjust. 

“Goodness, who do we have here? Come in, come in.”

 

The matronly voice was locally accented, soft and welcoming.

 

 

Foyle’s eyes had finally got used to the light and the first thing he saw was the woman coming around the bar towards them. He glanced around and noticed that there were no customers left in the pub – it was past closing time, after all. He removed his hat and reached for his identity card.

 

 

“Good evening, I apologise for our appearance, but our car skidded off the road about three miles back and we -”

 

 

He got no further. The woman only glanced at the outside of the ID before waving it aside. Her instincts about customers were probably well honed.

 

 

“Dear me, no–one hurt, I hope?”

 

 

“N…no, we are just a little shaken. I -”

 

 

“But your poor head!”

 

 

The woman saw Sam behind Foyle and tutted.

 

 

“You look done in, dear. Put those cases down, my goodness you two are a sorry sight.”

 

 

All the while she was speaking she was ushering both Sam and Foyle towards the fire, and helping both of them off with their overcoats.

 

 

Sam was amused to see her boss managed so effectively, and before very long they were seated in front of the large inglenook fireplace with a hot mug of tea in their hands.

 

 

The publican’s wife left them to drink their tea, saying that she was going to fix something to eat for them. A short while later a tall, well-built middle aged man entered the bar and came over to them.

 

 

“My wife tells me your car went off the road aways back. If you give me the keys I’ll get out to it and bring it back here.”

 

 

He was looking askance at Foyle, who was nearly half asleep.

 

 

Sam answered for him and stood up. She fumbled in her uniform pocket for the distributor rotor that she had taken to immobilise the car.

 

 

“You’ll need this, and a can of petrol. We were getting rather low just before we went off the road.”

 

“Oh, aye. Good thinking, stopping the car. I’ll take a can with me, you can pay me later for the petrol, I have to account for it all, what with the war.”

 “Absolutely. We have the paperwork.”

 

The publican nodded once and left them alone again.

 

 

Foyle stirred when Sam lifted the mug out of his clasp. He ran a hand over his face.

 

 

“We’d better see about rooms for the night, everything else can wait until the morning.”

 

 

Sam looked closely at him.

 

 

“You look all in. Why don’t you let me sort them out; you sit here by the fire, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

 

 

Foyle nodded wearily, and Sam went to find their hostess to enquire about two rooms for the night.

 

 

She found her in the spacious kitchen behind the bar. The woman looked up and smiled when she saw Sam.

 

“You didn’t have to bring the mugs; I’d have collected them later, but thank you, dear.”

 

She picked up a tray with two plates of thickly cut sandwiches and two fresh cups of tea. Sam followed her out of the kitchen and into one end of the bar, where their host kept her guest register.

 

 “Now, I expected that you would be needing a room for the night at least, so I had Len move your cases upstairs; it’s a lovely quiet room at the far end of the house. You were lucky we have one to spare. There’s a large ‘do’ on tomorrow, we’re almost fully booked.”

She had placed the tray on the counter, opened the register at the correct page and was poised with a pen. She looked up at Sam, who was still reeling from the unexpected knowledge that there was only one room available.

“Mr and Mrs…?”

 Sam thought fast. There was only one room and no car available. What should she do?

 Her mind suddenly cast back to Mr Foyle standing in the doorway of her jail cell, where she had been forced to sleep after having been bombed out of her accommodation. His slightly embarrassed tone remarking that if she wasn’t bothered by it, neither was he, and that she could come and stay at his house until she found somewhere else.

   Just as they had been adult and civilized about it at the time, then so could they now. It was late and the Chief wasn’t very well.

And the publican’s wife was still waiting.

 

Sam spoke quickly before her courage failed her.

 

 

“Foyle.”

 

 

Then, more firmly.

 

 "Mr and Mrs Christopher Foyle.”

 

Sam gulped and waited for the lightning bolt to strike her down.

 

 

“Thank you, dear. Will you sign for you both, save Mr Foyle getting up again?”

 

 

Sam nodded, not trusting her voice.

 

 

 

Oh dear.

 

 

 

 

TBC.