L'Aimant

Summary:

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944.

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Note:

More of these notes at the end, unfortunately! But this was the one I really wanted you to see up front…

"L'Aimant" is a perfume I have known all my life. It was created by François Coty in 1927, reputedly for "the love of his life". Presumably that wasn't his missus, as she divorced him two years later. But it does say a lot for the scent. Its aroma is a mélange of rose, orchid, jasmine, vanilla and sandalwood.

Chapter 1

Brookie stood behind the front desk of the Hastings Constabulary, beaming at Milner and Sam. "We've only been and gone and won the pools," he chirped. "A hundred quid! Would you adam-and-eve it? Port Vale drew with Arsenal! I swear the old man's either got RADAR or a crystal bloody ball to pick that combination."

Two incredulous faces absorbed the news, exchanged delighted looks, and began mentally to spend the money.

Meanwhile, emerging from his office with a sheaf of papers, DCS Foyle cocked an ear and an eyebrow. "Hmm? A hundred pounds? That's a very respectable sum. Donation to the Jewish Refugee Fund, don't you think?—Gentlemen? Sam?"

"Oh… Of course… Absolutely, sir." Sam's tone of voice was bright enough, but her face was set with obvious disappointment. Absolutely? Absolutely NO fun to be had in this war, she reflected miserably. People stood in dire need everywhere. Silly of her to expect any breaks in the gloom, really.

Foyle read Sam's thoughts in a fleeting glance and smiled down at the papers in his hand. "Oh, and um, Sergeant?" he addressed Brooke. "Hold back a fiver. Enough for a slap-up meal."

"Hooray! Followed by a film at The Ruby!" Sam erupted in a fountain of unsuppressed glee. All across the station concourse, everyone had to smile at the display.

Patches of colour, thought Foyle, to break up the oceans of relentless grey. "See to it then, Sergeant." He nodded to Brooke and withdrew discreetly from the celebrations.

Distance. It was the lonely price of holding a position of authority. Of being the "old man".

Friday couldn't arrive soon enough for Sam. Brookie had booked them all a table at "L'Alouette". Formerly "Benito's", until some drunken lout had lobbed a brick through the window in June of 1940—"Here's a present for il bloody Duce, mate! Nahahaha!"—the restaurant still served lasagne and ossobuco when supplies allowed, but the décor now was markedly more French than Italian.

Brooke had also reserved tickets for the 9 o'clock show at The Ruby. There were to be six of them attending: Paul was bringing Edie, Brookie had asked permission to invite his landlady's daughter Florence, and then of course there would be Mr Foyle and Sam.

"What's playing at the flicks this week then, Brookie?" asked Sam, leaning across the front desk to peer at The Hastings Chronicle.

"It's a brand new spy story, Miss Stewart. Hedy Lamarr and Paul Henreid. And we'll be in the dress circle." As if in honour of the posh seats, Sergeant Brooke rose to his full height, brushed down his uniform jacket, and posed there for her appreciation.

"Mind there's none of your usual antics, flicking orange peel over the balcony, then," Sam quipped with a wink. And Brookie fed on it. Oh yes, he fed on that cheeky wink, reflecting that, really, the old man didn't know how lucky he was. If only he'd just open his two eyes and notice what he'd got. Fat lot of good having inbuilt RADAR if it didn't detect women who were obviously sweet on him.

In the event, the meal had been good—and the wine even better, which was yet another story ("Eh! Silvia! Pronto! Due bottiglie del miglior rosso per il commissario ei suoi amici")—but as for the flicks, "The Conspirators" turned out to be a disappointment in Sam's books. Henreid was no Bogie, and Hedy Lamarr, though decorative, failed to project the lip-trembling vulnerability of Ingrid Bergman in soft-focus. Ah well, thought Sam, gazing along the cinema row, at least Paul and Edie seemed to be transfixed, and Brookie? Well, most of the time he appeared to be looking sideways into Florence's ear, so he would hardly be complaining later about the feeble plot.

Plenty of opportunity, then, for Sam's mind to wander. And wander it did—to her boss in the seat next to hers. The overhead stream of light from the projector gave her a good view of Mr Foyle's hands, folded neatly in his lap behind the trilby perched atop his knees. The creases in his trouser legs were sharp, his nails remarkably neat. If she shifted her eyes as far to the left as they would comfortably go, she could observe his face quite easily without appearing obvious. It was a skill she had perfected over the years of driving him, but on this occasion there was no additional need to keep her eyes on the road. Thus she settled down to make her own entertainment, and what she did observe was rather more absorbing than the flickering images that played before her.

Foyle's gaze was steady beneath hooded lids, and fixed upon the screen. When the illumination from a scene allowed, Sam could just perceive a touch of shadowy beard-growth on his lower cheeks. His lips described a perfectly straight line, framed by a crease from nose to chin which hinted at a smile. His ears were shapely, small and almost elfin, his forehead slightly furrowed from the eyebrows raised habitually in query. The philtrum made a slight depression in his upper lip, and Sam could fancy that she saw a trace of moisture nestling there.

Sam swallowed and admonished herself sternly. This was quite too much! A veritable banquet of movie idols on the screen before her, and all she could do was feast on poor Mr Foyle, innocently minding his own business in the neighbouring seat.

In point of fact, from Foyle's perspective, the only "business" on his mind was a determination thoroughly to savour the occasion. And as the evening wore along, the definite emerging flavour on his mind was essence of Sam Stewart.

Seated inches from her body, he was in prime position to capture her aroma. Not for the first time tonight (caught up by what had, in the course of their outing, become an absorbing occupation), Foyle suppressed his primary senses and settled down instead to exercise his sense of smell.

This aim was rendered easier by the disappointing standard of the film: at best the plot was anodyne; Lamarr was wooden; Henreid was a sop. Though Sydney Greenstreet lent the thing some gravitas, and Peter Lorre mugged in creditable style, the net result was, frankly, "Casa-Blanda". All of which released Foyle to affect a stony pose of rapt attention, whilst he covertly applied himself to the fragrant business of detecting… Sam.

His five years spent in an enclosed passenger compartment by Sam Stewart's side had not been wasted. In that time he had learned her scent, and come to know its nuances. Tonight, a different tang was in the air, and if he found it slightly troubling, he nonetheless intended to identify and catalogue the item for his records. Sleuthing was, after all, his job.

Her perfume was no mystery, in fact: Coty's "L'Aimant". He knew it well from memory, as a favourite of Rosalind's. At the outset, Sam's wearing of it on their trips had quite disturbed him, but soon enough the scent had settled in his mind as Sam's own. From then on, he simply found it…comforting. The days on which she wore it now were rare. Perfume was in short supply, and therefore, he presumed, reserved for special occasions. Today, he mused, was clearly one of those for Sam.

Nor was her shampoo difficult to place, mainly because the shops had long-since lacked such luxuries. Only that week, he had heard her grumbling to Brooke that Lux Flakes were the only way to wash her hair. He'd loitered, listening but hidden, round the corner in the corridor, back pressed against the wall, smiling to himself as Samantha told her tale of woe: "Imagine, Brookie! Lux Flakes are for laundry. And if this war goes on much longer, I'll be reduced to running Sunlight Soap along a cheese grater. Honestly, perhaps I'll just cut it all off and be done."

Not if I've got anything to do with it. The next day Foyle had sneaked a box of Lux Flakes into work and placed it in the bottom kitchen cupboard, near the rat poison. "Sam, something has been nibbling at my files. Have a hunt in the kitchen for some stuff to put down would you? Blessed rodents."

It had worked, of course: "Um, Sir? I also found these soap flakes in the cupboard… I wonder if you'd mind…?"

No, thought Foyle, he definitely didn't mind those long, cascading, honey-coloured curls of hair that smelt of Lux. And he would make damn sure she had no reason to cut them off. But there was something more, tonight. A base-note of alluring, sweet and heady skin, intensified here somehow in the upper auditorium of The Ruby. Foyle pondered for a moment and then filed the troubling fragrance under S in his imagination. And though that S potentially could stand for many things, the gentleman in him settled on "Seductiveness".

The Ruby emptied quickly once the lights went up. Paul and Edie led the way down from the dress circle arm-in-arm. Sam draped her winter coat across her forearm to descend the stairs, and Foyle followed one step behind, bringing up the rear,

Brookie reviewed events so far tonight, and allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. With Florence now a permanent attachment on his arm, his evening spelt success, and so he could relax and drift back into observation mode.

It was then that he saw solid evidence to convict Foyle: Miss Stewart was delayed by crowds descending, and there he stood, the DCS, behind her, leaning forwards, all closed eyes and nostrils flaring, breathing in her hair. Caught ya! gloated Brookie. Tomorrow at the station he would open up a book on Foyle and Sam. The lads were going to love it, no mistake. No matter that they couldn't wager money; they still had enough fags between them for a decent stake.

Though in the past year, air raids over Hastings town had lessened, normal blackout rules were still in force, and the foyer lights were not allowed to spill outside the building. Early November had brought its customary chill to the air, and so the party lingered in the foyer to exchange goodnights.

"Well done, Brooke. Pleasant evening, thank you," nodded Foyle, raising his hat to Florence with a smile.

"Good night, Sir! See you Monday morning then, Miss Stewart," grinned Brooke, and felt a twinge of Judas in his soul. It quickly passed—nothing was going to stop him making book. In any case, he felt as if he were about to do a service to the old man's love life. With all the lads onside, albeit for a pile of fags, the DCS was bound to play a blinder—even score.

"Good night, Sir. Sam." Milner reached out and shook Foyle's hand, and Edie leaned to peck Sam on the cheek. "I thought Paul Henreid was a dream," she said.

"Oh. Yes. Quite nice," said Sam, though really all her memories of the film were Foyle-related.

She stood there next to Mr Foyle, and watched the others go.

"Did you enjoy the evening, Sir?" she asked, quite suddenly subdued and very taken with her shoes.

"First-rate meal," he offered. "Congenial company, and, if I may say so, 'looking very s…splendid tonight, Sam. Um. I should hail a taxi, get you home."

He gestured that he'd help her with her coat, then stood behind her, holding it aloft. Sam turned her head to one side, feeling backwards for the sleeves, and suddenly that scent assailed him yet again. Intoxicating scent of "L'Aimant", Lux and Lust. He really should have filed her base-aroma under L. Not just imagination, surely, was it?

"A taxi? That would be marvellous sir. It's rather cold to walk." Sam's mood was back on form. Somehow the prospect of a taxi-ride with Mr Foyle had perked her up, and finishing the evening no longer seemed so dull a prospect.

"Be a moment." He turned up his collar and darted out through the foyer doors to find a cab.

A minute or two later he was back, stretching out an arm to usher Sam outside. In fact, she smiled, they'd have to drive directly past Steep Lane to reach her lodgings further out. But Foyle, ever the gentleman, would stay the course to see her home, she knew.

In theory it should have been a fairly speedy journey, but less than a minute after they had settled into the spacious back seat of the taxi, sirens began to wail and the driver pulled over, leaning over the back of his seat to regard them wearily.

"Ride stops here, Guv. Jerry's on 'is way. Hidey-hole's over there." The driver gestured with his thumb, behind them. Sam turned quickly. "Behind the church hall? Come on, Sir."

All three of them abandoned ship and made for the public shelter. It wasn't very full. People were mostly down the cellars in their own homes, or squatting in a shelter in the garden. This shelter's clientele comprised a few unfortunates like Foyle and Sam, "caught on the hop", so to speak. A lantern offered dim illumination at each end, but it wasn't easy to see the faces of the other occupants.

Sam's teeth chattered as she felt for a seat. Foyle followed and sat down beside her, brushing accidentally against her shoulder.

"Chilly night," he said in her ear. "I thought they'd given up."

"Not quite, apparently," she shivered. "Trust Jerry to ruin a nice night out. It's freezing down here." She wrapped her arms around herself to summon up some warmth. He shifted immediately, shrugging out of his overcoat, and made to drape it around her shoulders. "Cold AND cramped," he said. "Wear this."

"Are you sure, Sir? Really? Thank you." Sam was blushing brightly in the dark.

"Over soon, you'll see" he said. And actually, his prophesy came true. In less than twenty minutes the All Clear was sounded, and the shelter slowly emptied of its cold and miserable occupants.

Sam stood and started to remove Foyle's coat from round her shoulders, but a firm hand pressed it back in place. "Keep it on, Sam. I'm wearing more layers than you."

She did a quick mental inventory of her own familiar layers, then imagined his presumed ones, then realised that the situation worked both ways and he must have been making presumptions about her own layers. She blushed again. For heaven's sake, just drop it, Sam, she thought.

Emerging from the shelter, Sam and Foyle made a beeline for the road, but found nothing where the taxi had been parked.

"Taxi driver seems to have hopped it, sir," remarked Sam, rather unnecessarily.

Foyle considered for a moment. By rights, he should have felt some irritation, but somehow he couldn't force himself to mind. In fact, was there a taxi drivers' benevolent fund? he wondered. He might just drop a sixpence in their box some time.

"Well, um…" he supplied, hands in pockets, chewing lightly on his cheek. "No taxis to be had round here. Too cold to walk any distance. Um. Come home with me." It was neither a question nor an order, but a statement of future fact.

Sam stood and made a second inventory of her layers. They started with some recycled parachute-silk and ended several thicknesses later with Foyle's overcoat. So the shiver now coursing down her spine was definitely not a result of the cold. His invitation was entirely matter-of-fact, and thus she reasoned that she only had herself to blame for her silly and inappropriate state of mind.

A deep breath. "That's really very hospitable of you, Sir" she managed. "I accept."

Foyle mused then that the phrase "be careful what you wish for" was the adage of a wise and wary man. So be it; better finish what you've started, Foyle, he thought.

At some point during the air raid warning and its aftermath, Saturday had arrived. So, though only ten minutes later, it was in the early hours of the morning that Sam and Foyle trudged slowly up Steep Lane in silence. Foyle fished the keys out from his trouser pocket, unlocked the front door of number 31, and pushed it open, turning sideways on the threshold to usher Sam inside.

She passed him quickly and stood quietly in the hall.

"Umm. May I take your—my—coat?"

Sam turned her back to Foyle and bowed her head so he could lift the coat away from her shoulders. From where he now stood, he could smell her hair wafting "L'Aimant"/Lux into his nostrils, and though his hands were poised to pull the overcoat away, it somehow never happened.

Instead his hands just rested on her shoulders, and his nose sank deep into her honey-coloured locks. "Sam," he croaked, and turned her gently round to face him.

His action then unleashed a raft of new sensations, for here were eyes like pools of Bournville chocolate, gazing straight into his own. And skin, like alabaster tinged with flecks of cinnamon.

He licked his lips. "Um. Sam, there's something you should know…"

"My guess would be, it's time to drop the 'sir'?" Her utterance was flippant, but her heart was drumming rhythms in her throat.

He gazed at her and smiled, and kissed her.

She took in his scent of Robin starch and spicy aftershave and… Foyle. His lips, two pads of supple, urgent joy, were moist and soft. He shifted, and Sam thought that she would never breathe again.

Except of course she had to, and she did. But not before her hands had risen slowly to his hair and stroked at last the waves that gathered at his nape.

And having breathed, she called him "Christopher".

**** TBC ****

More Author's Notes:

Back in the days when I was a spotty teenager, and my female contemporaries were wafting around smelling of "Charlie", "Smitty" and even, gawd 'elp us, "Brut for Men", my own preference was for Coty's "L'Aimant", which had been a popular fragrance since the 1920s.

I rather fancied my prowess in French at the time. I was doing an O-level, and knew the word "aimant" to be the present participle of "aimer"—to love. And so it followed "Loving her" (or him? or it?) was always the translation in my mind. What I never realised, until a few days ago, is that the word "aimant" in French also means "magnet". Clever, isn't it? Two meanings for the price of one, and very apt.

I had to work a restaurant called Benito's into this. The poor chap really couldn't help sharing a name with Mussolini. But as we know from other episodes of Foyle's War, Italian eateries and their proprietors suffered great indignities and worse during the war. We look at such occurrences with horror now, but a nation never learns. In the last decade, a fish and chip shop in the UK named "Osama's Plaice" was called upon by customers to change its name. Hardly necessary to tell you why, since we all now live in the shadow of Bin Liner. The owner, very rightly, was incensed, but like Benito in my story, he may well have swallowed his pride and gone with the flow. I'd like to think, though, that if Osama did accede, the rebel in him changed the shop's name to "Osama's Pollocks".

"The Conspirators" was released in October 1944. I have no idea whether it was immediately available in the UK. I suspect not. In those days, movies took a while to float across the pond. We were, after all, a backwater nation, minus fridges. Anyway, the general consensus on release was that it was an inferior imitation of Casablanca. I have never seen the film myself, but if you have, and disagree with this assessment, drop me a line.

The last recorded air-raid warning over Hastings town was November 9th 1944. It was a Thursday, but for the purposes of the plot, I've put it on Friday 3rd. Worse travesties of fact have happened, and I like to think of the alarm as a sort of parting present from Jerry to Sam and Foyle.

Hope you've enjoyed the story so far.

GiuC