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Chapter Text

December 25, 1933

Christmas dinner was always served late at St. Stephen’s vicarage in Lyminster. Reverend Stewart had no curate, so he had to finish the Christmas services and visit the homebound on his own. It was already dark when the family of three sat down to the feast Mrs. Stewart and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Samantha, prepared. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes with plenty of butter, and brussels sprouts. They had already devoured the Christmas pudding and were now on the mincemeat pies with bowls of nuts, dates, and figs on the side. A cozy fire roared in the dining room. They had all laughed at the Christmas crackers, and Mrs. Stewart has even let Samantha have the smallest tumbler of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

Samantha may have been a sheltered vicar’s daughter, but even she knew days like this, happy days with good food and laughter and love, did not come along often. She smiled at her parents, a genuine smile, and wished she could bottle up this moment.

Chapter Text

Christmas Day, 1964

“Brussels sprouts? Ugh! Why did you make these, Mum? You know I don’t like them.”

Samantha Wainwright stared at the sprouts with roasted chestnuts and bacon, and then at Michael, her fourteen-year-old son. Instead of admonishing him for his rudeness, she instead thought back through the last month of her life. The shopping. The cleaning. The decorating. The baking. The cooking. The Christmas concerts and parties and making sure shirts were ironed and shoes were polished. All so that her husband and four sons could have a bloody Happy Christmas.

While Adam demanded Michael apologize to his mother and the other three boys yelled and clanked spoons against serving dishes and their dinner plates, Samantha closed her eyes and silently asked the Blessed Virgin Mary for patience. Mary would never condone a mother strangling their own child, especially on the day of her son’s birth.

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December 1969

Samantha Wainwright gathered up the ingredients for homemade eggnog and began to panic. This happened occasionally, when she made something decadent and her brain forgot that rationing had ended fifteen years ago.

5 eggs
1 cup heavy cream
⅔ cup sugar
¾ cup rum

She set the recipe card down, written out in her mother’s script handwriting.

She reminded herself it was alright to spend more than one month’s ration of eggs on a festive drink. There was more than enough eggs for everyone. Enough sugar. Enough cream. Enough cinnamon and vanilla and nutmeg.

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December 1928

Samantha Stewart never had the patience for pomander balls, but she loved watching her father make them. He had studied art at university before becoming a vicar, and he could make the most amazing swirls, circles, and diamonds with the cloves. After the ones for the mantle were complete, he would make one just for her. He’d hand it to her, tousle her hair, and give her golden curls a kiss, a rare sign of affection. She would turn the orange over in her hand, breathing in the scent of Christmas.

Chapter Text

Christmas Night, 1957

The boys finally asleep, Sam Wainright sat at her vanity and stared in the mirror. It had been a hard year. The magazines told her motherhood was her ultimate purpose, but she felt a lack of accomplishment. Meanwhile, Adam had been asked to head a new committee. With his stock rising, he was home even less when Sam needed reassurance more than ever.

She turned toward the door. Adam held a small package, wrapped with a bow. He walked toward her chair, knelt down, and handed it to her.

Sam smiled, puzzledly. She hadn’t expected another gift. Opening it carefully revealed a perfume bottle.

They looked at each other, and each knew that the other was thinking about their first Christmas together, in 1945.

They had no money, and even if they had any, there was nothing to be bought.

“Don’t worry,” Sam had told him in bed a week before Christmas. “Just buy me some rose-scented perfume one day, and I will love you forever.”

“I hope your promise still stands?” he asked.

She stroked his cheek and nodded her head

Chapter Text

December 23, 1992

Sam placed the poinsettia plant on the dining room table. Her sons’ families would arrive Christmas Day, spending Christmas Eve with their wives’ families. She enjoyed the solitude before eighteen sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren descended upon her.

She phoned Andrew. Since Emily had died in May, she made it a habit to call every few weeks. The man had fought fascism from the cockpit of an airplane, but the biggest enemy he had ever faced was paying his electric bill on time.

“Foyle residence,” he answered.

“It’s Sam. How are you?”

“Oh, alright I suppose.”

Sam knew better.

“Kids coming home for Christmas?”

“Erm, yes, on Christmas Day.”

“But not on Christmas Eve?”

His laugh sounded forced. “Oh, it’s fine, just me and Dad’s chair and a new bottle of Glenlivet. A good book.”

Sam thought quickly, “Why don’t you come up here for lunch? You can take an early train up and a late one back.”

“Sam, I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like the idea of you moping in the house on your own.”

His laugh sounded genuine. “Thanks, Sam, I’d love to.”

“Jolly good. Andrew, do you like coq au vin?”

Chapter Text

December 22, 1946

A few weeks before Hilda Pierce’s suicide, Sam fell ill. Morning sickness, along with a terrible cold, made her weak. The mention of food turned her stomach. She finally had to telephone her parents and beg off coming down for Christmas.

“Sam?” Adam quietly opened the bedroom door. “Mrs. Godlewski from down the street is here. She brought some soup with her.”

“Oh Adam, I just can’t.”

Mrs. Godlewski appeared and walked toward the bed and placed a bowl of soup on the nightstand. Surprisingly, it smelled good.

The older woman made a baby bump gesture with her arm and raised her eyebrows. Sam confirmed her wordless question, and Mrs. Godlewski nodded in sympathy. She sat on Sam’s bed.

“Soup good for you. Good for baby. Try?”

Mrs. Godlewski ladled broth onto the spoon and fed it to Sam. Mushroom and barley.

Sam hardly knew this woman but to say hello. A woman who cared enough to make soup for her sick, pregnant neighbor.

She took Sam’s hand and have it a squeeze, signal of some kind of female solidarity.

“Thank you. Happy Christmas,” Sam said before letting go.

“Ah, Wesołych Świąt,” she said in reply.

Sam never forgot how to say “Happy Holidays” in Polish.

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December 1962

“But then Mr. Foyle realized the copper was setting DS Milner up?” David Waingwright, sat next to his twin brother, John. They took turns using the mortar and pestle, making mixed spice for their mother.

Her boys always referred to Paul as DS Milner, even though he was now a chief inspector in Brighton.

Sam knew she was far too deep in the story to stop now. The inquisitive nine-year-olds asked her about her most memorable Christmas. She started telling an abridged version of the events of December 1942.

Sam’s restraint was no match for their curiosity. They asked all the right questions, sometimes both attacking her and sometimes leaving pauses that made her talk more.

She had to admit that they would make excellent detectives.

The story complete, and Sam proud that she avoided any mention of Milner’s lying and possible adultery, she reminded the boys not to mention this the next time they saw the Milners.

“We won’t, Mum,” assured John.

“We won’t tell Dad, either,” added David. “You just have the best stories. We wouldn’t want him to put a stop to them.”

Chapter Text

December 1979

Sam booked a trip to Greece over Christmas, just her and Adam. She was both relieved and mildly irritated at how quickly the boys found other plans for their holiday.

“But how will it look?” Adam trailed off after Sam shared the news. It didn’t matter how it looked anymore, a former Labour MP taking a fancy holiday abroad. His constituents voted him out. Sam and Adam could do as they pleased for the first time in thirty years.

They basked in the sun, Sam rereading The Thorn Birds and Adam a John le Carré novel. Had Sam ever seen him read anything besides memos and reports? They feasted on fresh fish, feta cheese and pomegranate salad, figs, and olives. In the afternoons, they made love and took long siestas.

“I could get used to island living,” Adam said one day while lying in bed, a warm breeze making the bedroom curtains dance.

“Mr. Wainwright, have you forgotten we live on an island?” Sam pulled the bedsheets around them and spooned into him.

I like this island better,” he said, kissing her neck and holding her tight.

Chapter Text

December 1983

The post arrived, and Sam saw the envelope with the familiar return address. She hadn’t seen Anne and Greville Woods in years, but Christmas cards had been exchanged, without fail, since 1941.

She couldn’t articulate the intensity of that time in her life, where friendships were formed quickly and disappeared just as fast. She remembered that February night in the bar, just before Greville’s crash and Andrew’s breakdown.

Greville surprised Anne with a gift.

“Here, I’ve, um, I’ve got something for you.”

“An orange! Where did you get it? There aren’t any in the shops.”

“I’ll fly to Seville and pick you up a whole crate.”

Sam leaned against the front door and held the card to her heart.

Chapter Text

December 1940

One night, Sam and Andrew shared memories of Christmases past.

“Christmas hasn’t been the same since Mum died,” he admitted. “She made gingerbread men every year. Dad loved them. Said it wasn’t Christmas until he had one.”

The day before Christmas Eve, Sam stopped by DCS Foyle’s office.

“You off then?”

Sam nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you again for the extra day off.”

“You’ve earned it."

She placed a tin on his desk.

“For you,” she said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Well, thank you, Sam,” he replied, making no move toward the gift.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

He frowned as he reached forward and carefully opened it. His face was equal parts surprise and delight. Inside were ten small gingerbread men.

“I found a recipe in a Ministry of Food pamphlet. No decorations, but they taste alright.”

He smiled a real smile.

“How did you know?”

Before she could answer, he returned to his usual composed self.

Foyle cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sam. Much appreciated.”

“A pleasure, sir.”

She was glad she didn’t tell Andrew about the biscuits. She didn’t think there would be any left by the time he made it home.

Chapter Text

December 1954

“No, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes rolled on the other side of the telephone. One hand held the receiver, the other an invitation to a 1945 Hastings Police Department reunion.

“Why not, sir?”

“I’m not good at parties. And I prefer to remember people as they are.”

Ten years ago, Sam would never have reproached him.

A lot had changed in ten years.

After an appropriate pause, Sam spoke again.

“The men will be expecting you, sir.”

It wasn’t the words as much as the tone that surprised Foyle.

She sounded disappointed in him.

She sounded like a mother.

It was no surprise that two weeks later he stood in a community center while his former constables, sergeants, and inspectors paid their respects.

Sam walked back to him, carrying two hot toddies.

“Here we are, sir,” handing him one.

“Waste of perfectly good whisky, if you ask me,” he growled.

“I saw the bottle. Trust me, this is an improvement.”

Foyle chuckled before he took a sip.

“This isn’t too bad,” he said. Sam didn’t know if he meant the party, the toddy, or both.

“And I’m very glad you’re here."

She smiled back. “Thank you, sir.

Chapter Text

December 1939

Sam walked into the kitchen, her mother working on fruit cakes for the church wardens.

Now was as good a time as any, she thought.

“Ah, Samantha, help me with these?” Mrs. Stewart asked.

“Actually, Mother, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Hmm?” Mrs. Stewart replied distractedly.

“I want to do something for the war effort.”

“Can you hand me the jam?”

Sam passed her mother the jar.

“I read about the MTC. The Mechanised Transport Corps. They’re recruiting women who can drive.”

“Oh, this jam needs more water.” Mrs. Stewart walked over to the sink.

“Mother, are you even listening to me?”

Ms. Stewart grabbed the counter and closed her eyes.

“Yes, Samantha. And we can talk about it. But after Christmas. I just want one more Christmas before …” she trailed off.

She looked at her daughter, a longed-for daughter after years of trying for a child. A daughter born at the tail end of the war to end all wars. A daughter who couldn’t yet imagine the loss and suffering this new war would bring.

“After Christmas.” She smiled weakly

Sam nodded.

“After Christmas,” she repeated back. “Now how can I help?”

Chapter Text

December 1944

After Sam declined Joe’s proposal, she didn’t see him for several months. But after some time, he realized that Sam was correct.

Before his unit left for its next posting, he asked Sam if she would write to him.

“I don’t get many letters,” he admitted.

Sam always felt that things were not as sunny in California as Joe made them out to be.

And so she sent letters, all the while following the reports of the Allies on the continent. All the while thinking about Tony and Joe, and yes, even Andrew.

A small package waited for her on the hallway table as she walked in after work one evening.

Dear Sam,
We got some extra chocolate this month, and I couldn’t think of anyone who would appreciate it more than you.
Merry Christmas,
Joe

Sam smelled the chocolate started to cry. Six Christmases since the war started. She thought back her younger self, who welcomed the war, who thought it would be an adventure.

Her younger self would have ripped open the chocolate and eaten it at once.

Her current self decided to save it.

Joe would want her to eat it when she was happy.