Epilogue 1932

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Rosalind Foyle sits stiffly in the photographer's studio, uncomfortable as the photographer arranges his lights. Christopher has been promoted to Detective Superintendent and has booked this appointment, specifically requested a photograph to stand in his new office. There are so many things she has to smile about. She has a husband who loves her now as much, if not more than he did the day they married; whose touch can still make her shiver as it did under the silver birch. She has a son who is handsome and bright and who will do well in whatever he chooses; a son who, when put to her breast, made her heart swell almost painfully with love. She has a home that is comfortable and suits them perfectly, a brother who still teases her about the witch and her non-existent scream. She has a fulfilled life – she paints and sketches and loves the sea and cliffs that surround the town.

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Rosalind thinks about the way she felt in church, standing beside her handsome young husband, full of joy and so sure that she knew what love was. She has since discovered so many more aspects of it as their marriage has gone through its ups and downs, its troubles and celebrations. She has done her best to care for him, to support him – a task which has become easier as the effects of the horrors have receded and his nightmares no longer disturb their nights. She has absorbed the pain of his memories; she has tried to make his work less arduous. The worry that she feels every morning when he leaves is hidden behind a smile that reassures him that all will be well until he returns safely. She sometimes imagines herself as calm and serene as Mother in the presence of bad news until she remembers Mother's fate. So when she is alone she allows herself the grief and anguish so that she may recognise it and hide it from the man who knows her as well as she knows herself.

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Now she remembers the words of the doctor she has seen about the fever which comes and goes. Since Christmas it has receded slightly to be replaced by headaches and abdominal pain that has made it difficult to eat. She has lost weight and she knows that she looks drawn and tired. The doctor has taken blood for testing and spoken of a poor prognosis. Her imagination shows her Christopher, older now but still the same compassionate man that she fell in love with, his body tense with worry, his eyes bright with tears unshed until he knows for sure. She sees him standing at her graveside, Andrew at his side. She knows that Andrew will take the news of her fate with quiet distress – he is her son, he will not scream and wail despite his young age. Nevertheless the thought of them suffering, anticipating is more than she can bear. So she hides her pain, pretends that she has eaten before they have their meal and hopes that when the inevitable happens it will be quick so that they do not suffer too long. She thinks of her two boys as she fondly calls them, and she smiles.

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"Beautiful, Mrs Foyle," the photographer says, but as the camera flashes so does her pain. Her hair, done especially in a marcel wave, sticks to the back of her neck as a wave of nausea washes over her. She presses her lips together and tries not to look away.