Work Text:
October 1931
Rosalind looked affectionately at the two figures, heads bowed over their work, concentration showing in every muscle. They sat at opposite ends of the dining table, one with short brown curly hair that defied gravity, the other’s longer, straighter and darker, the same shade as her own. It seemed a shame to disturb either of them to lay the table; they were so caught up in their work. It wouldn’t hurt for them all to have tea on their laps just for once, would it? She stood in the kitchen doorway, unobserved, and studied them.
She loved her husband’s curls, the way they always sprang back no matter how much she smoothed them for him before he went to work. When she’d first met him, during the war when she was just a girl, she’d wondered what it would be like to touch them. When he’d come back for her sixteen year-old self, making her breathless with his words of love, she’d discovered how soft they were, how resilient when she wound her fingers through them and kissed him. Her husband… even now, after all these years she still felt a thrill at those words. Her Christopher, the best of men, the man she loved more than any other, and the father of her son. He was tying an Iron Blue Dun, she recognised proudly. She had no interest in his hobby, but even she could tell this one from amongst the others. He’d told her once it was a mayfly, but it appeared all year round. He made so many, she thought, he could probably do it with his eyes shut. But his eyes now, she saw, were not on his work, but on Andrew’s.
The box on the table had been carefully wrapped a few weeks ago, ready for Andrew’s birthday this week. It was the most expensive present they’d ever bought for him, but neither cared about the cost this time. And it had been worth every shilling to see his face when he’d opened it – a blue box, the illustration of the plane flying directly toward the observer, and the magic word FROG in red, below it. A Mark IV Interceptor Fighter to be assembled from balsa wood and paper, and flown using elastic, wound up by a mechanism built in the box. They’d considered whether the construction would be too difficult – Andrew could be impatient with things that didn’t go together easily - which was undoubtedly why Christopher was watching so vigilantly now.
It had all started the previous June, on a mild Saturday lunchtime…
Inspector Foyle walked home wearily. He disliked working at the weekend at the best of times, which is why he had recently sought promotion to Chief Inspector. That, and the fact that the boss was not as sharp as he could be, in Foyle’s opinion, often making assumptions rather than searching for the details that would reveal the true culprit. And his weekends were his family time, time for him to enjoy other things than work. As he started up the hill a familiar voice came from behind him.
“Dad, Dad, wait for us.” Andrew and a tall freckly lad, whose name escaped him, were running after him.
Foyle stopped, the boys soon joining him, breathing hard. Both were flushed, eyes bright, and he wondered what they’d been up to. Andrew waved a piece of paper in front of him.
“Dad, you’ll never guess who’s coming to Hastings,” he gasped.
“Won’t I? Better tell me then,” he said, lips twitching at his son’s expression.
“Amy Johnson,” Andrew shouted, as the other lad nodded his head in agreement.
“Right,” answered Foyle, “well, yes, I suppose that is a cause for excitement.”
“No, Dad, not just that,” Andrew was walking backwards ahead of him speaking animatedly. “She’s going to take people for rides in her Gypsy Moth! Isn’t she, Rex?”
“Is she now?” Foyle asked. He knew all too well his son’s enthusiasm for all things flight-related. The previous year Andrew had followed the famous solo journey Miss Johnson had made to Australia, making a scrap-book of every news report he could find.
“You get her autograph as well. And she’s got a new plane,” Andrew continued, “It’s called Jason III, a two-seater.”
“There’ll be other pilots too, sir,” Rex interrupted, “in three-seater Spartans.”
Rex grinned at Andrew. “It’d be great wouldn’t it? In the skies above the town? Just think what we’d see.”
Foyle felt as if he’d been thumped in the stomach as the implications of Rex’s words sank in. They had no fear, these lads, no idea of the dangers involved. They’d happily get in a crate on wheels with an engine on it, wings as fragile as a butterfly’s, nothing holding them in but a piece of webbing. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable request.
“D’you think Mum would let me go up?” Andrew asked.
“Um, no idea,” Foyle hedged, smiling inwardly at the thought of Rosalind’s undoubtedly horrified expression.
It was then, a shock when he told Rosalind about it, Andrew having gone as moral support with Rex as he asked his parents.
“What a wonderful opportunity,” she said, showing him an article in the paper about the very thing. “But, Christopher, it’s quite expensive.”
“Wonderful opportunity?” He gaped at her. “Roz, surely you’re not entertaining the idea?”
Her smile was indulgent. “For a sensible man you’re such a worrier at times,” she whispered holding him close. “Or is it because she’s a woman you think she can’t be trusted with one of those ‘infernal machines’? Think what she’s done already, love.”
Foyle held her and considered his reaction. He didn’t want Andrew up in that plane. Was it because the pilot was a woman? Or the accident rate for the planes was higher than he’d like? No. It was the thought of something, anything happening to Andrew. Problems during his birth meant there’d been no more children, a fact that had distressed him as much as Rosalind. But now, nearly thirteen years later, she seemed to have come to terms with it. He, on the other hand, still felt the absence of other children keenly and the thought of losing his son was a constant niggle in the back of his mind. Andrew had always been a dare-devil – climbing trees, balancing on the garden wall, riding his bike with hands in his pockets. Foyle’s heart had been in his mouth more times than he could count. But those things were normal for an adventurous child – flying in a bi-plane was most definitely not. He fervently hoped Rex’s parents would feel the same.
“Although if you get your promotion, we’ll be able to afford it. What do you think?” she asked softly, her voice holding that hint of future pleasures should he agree.
“I’ll think about it,” he answered. What he’d really think about were good reasons to say no.
Andrew returned full of the news that Mr and Mrs Talbot, Rex’s parents, were going down to Butler & Phillips that very afternoon to find out how to reserve a ticket for a flight. Foyle’s heart sank - it would be more difficult to refuse either him or Rosalind now.
By mid June the local papers were full of the news and advertising posters had begun to appear on walls around the town. The ‘Flying Field’ as they were calling it, was next to Fairlight Church and several weekends prior to Miss Amy Johnson’s visit other pilots had begun taking the brave citizens of Hastings and nearby towns on short flights for the grand price of five shillings. They even charged one shilling for the privilege of parking by the church, many choosing to do just that and enjoy the flights vicariously. Tickets were selling quickly and Foyle was being pressured by both wife and son. Eventually he called in the Queen Street showroom of Butler and Philips and enquired about the price of the Amy Johnson tickets.
“Cheapest is ten bob, mate,” the salesman told him “That gets you a half-hour in the air. But if you want longer…”
“No, no.” Foyle was quick to stop him. “Ten shillings, really?”
Even on an inspector’s wage that was roughly, he rapidly calculated, a whole day’s pay.
“Well, if you want to see the plane up close it’ll be here next Saturday,” the man sneered, “you know, for those who can’t, ahem, afford a flight.”
Foyle suppressed the urge to say what he thought and gave the man a disdainful stare.
“Well,” he said evenly, “it just happens that I can afford it. I’ll take a ten shilling ticket, if you please.”
He walked home with the small piece of card burning a hole in his pocket and wondering if he was becoming a soft touch.
Once alone with Rosalind he confessed to his purchase.
“Oh, Christopher, he’ll be over the moon,” she said, hugging him. “He’s done nothing but go on about how lucky Rex is. His flight’s on the Monday and his parents have arranged for him to have the day off school.”
“This one’s Wednesday,” he told her, “the last day, six o’clock.”
He’d enquired already about what would happen if the flight should not, for any reason, take place, and been assured of a full refund. Whilst not wishing bad luck on anyone, he harboured a secret wish that perhaps by then, something would have happened – poor weather, mechanical failure, damage and so on, leaving Andrew safe on the ground and himself ten bob better off.
“He’d better appreciate this, is all I can say,” he told Rosalind. “It’s money we really can’t afford.”
“You could,” she suggested, “tell him it’s an early birthday present. Well done, love – I know you’re not happy about this, but we’ve got to let him go sometime and who knows what he’ll be up to then.”
“Well, I’m not telling him at all, at least not yet,” he retorted. “He won’t be able to talk about anything else.”
The 27th of June saw huge crowds outside the showroom as the plane was unveiled. Andrew had bolted down his breakfast and dashed off with Rex to see it. Foyle was all set for copious detailed descriptions when Andrew returned but his son was surprisingly quiet.
“What’s the matter, son?” he asked half-teasingly, “Having second thoughts about flying now you’ve seen a plane close up?”
Andrew looked at him miserably.
“Rex can’t do the flight,” he said. “He’s been a real wet blanket all morning.”
“Why can’t he do it?” Rosalind asked, her brow wrinkled.
“Can’t afford it,” Andrew stated, “Mr Talbot worked at Breeds' Brewery. He hasn’t found another job since the fire. They’ve had to return the ticket.”
“Oh,” Rosalind’s voice was soft, “How awful. What will they do if he can’t get another job?”
“Dunno,” Andrew answered, “didn’t ask.”
Rosalind was pensive and Foyle knew exactly what she was thinking about. He wouldn’t be surprised if she buttonholed the Talbots outside church tomorrow. She’d already be thinking what she could do to help. Whatever had he done to deserve this wonderful woman?
The following day Rosalind did indeed spend some time speaking to Rex’s mother while he and Rex’s father spoke awkwardly about the new lifeboat and such. Later she confided in them what she had discovered – that Rex’s family would need to move from their home in Old Town if Rex’s father didn’t get a new job very soon.
“She told me that Rex’s birthday is next week and the poor lad will have nothing. He may not even have a roof over his head,” she said. “His mother’s talking about taking in washing to keep their heads above water.”
Amy Johnson arrived in Hastings on the first Thursday of July amid a flurry of attention. Andrew and Rex spent their time after school hiking up to Fairlight and watching the flights. Foyle waited until Andrew was back on Friday evening before producing the object that had been sitting in his desk drawer since its purchase. A square of card, printed with ornate lettering it was titled ‘SPECIAL FLIGHT TICKET’. Underneath it read
‘Entitling …………………. to One Flight in Miss Amy Johnson’s Gipsy Moth “Jason” on ……………………….
He had filled in the lines with Andrew’s name and the assigned day and time.
“Got something here for you,” he said blankly, handing the ticket to Andrew.
Andrew took the proffered card and studied it, his face betraying no emotion at all. He turned it over and examined the Conditions of Use on the back.
“Although every possble precaution is taken in the avoidance of accidents it is understood that the Owner and pilot of this machine accepts no responsibility, and the passenger, by the acceptance of his ticket, accepts and takes upon himself all the risks and dangers of conveyance however arising,” he read out loud, his brow furrowing.
Rosalind and Foyle exchanged glances. Andrew seemed unable to comprehend what he’d been given. Even though his first request had met with disinterest he’d continued to ask, his comments showing that this was his thirteen-year old’s heart’s desire. Eventually Foyle could wait no longer.
“Well, son,” he asked, “you, um, pleased?”
Andrew looked at him, then at his mother. Then he stood up and dashed to hug them both in turn. Speechlessly he kissed the ticket and sat down again. He hardly spoke all evening, although he did take out the ticket and scrutinise it at regular intervals.
Saturday evening the three of them sat around the table playing cards. Andrew, usually the winner through sheer speed, had lost every game. He put down his cards and looked at Foyle.
“Can I please borrow your penknife, Dad?” he asked suddenly.
“Depends,” his father answered, “what d’you want it for?”
“Need to do something,” Andrew muttered, “It’s all right, Dad, I’ll look after it.”
Foyle handed him the small folding knife that he always carried. “Just don’t chop your fingers off before your big day,” he said.
Foyle had arranged to leave work early on the Wednesday and they all caught the bus to Fairlight together. Andrew, to Foyle’s concern, was quieter than he’d ever know him, and he worried that his son may actually be having second thoughts. The ‘Flying Field’ was busy, the Gypsy Moth having just landed from an earlier flight. They made their way to the makeshift ‘office’, a prefabricated shed where the tickets were checked. Outside this building Foyle was surprised to see Rex and his parents standing waiting.
“See Rex has come to see you off on your maiden flight,” Foyle joked to his pale-faced son.
Andrew turned to his mother. “You haven’t told Dad?” he asked incredulously.
Rosalind smiled. “No, Andrew love, I haven’t,” she said, “I thought he’d understand a little better actually seeing rather than hearing.”
Andrew walked up to Rex and handed him the flight ticket, his father’s writing carefully scraped off with the penknife and Rex’s name inserted in its stead. Foyle watched disbelievingly as Rex went into the shed, emerging moments later in a too-large jacket, leather helmet and goggles. Turning to speak to his wife he saw her smiling serenely and accepting the thanks of the Talbots.
“What exactly is going on?” Foyle hissed, pulling her away from the others, as Rex walked to the plane.
“Andrew has given his ticket to Rex, as a birthday present,” she told him.
“What?” Foyle choked. “You knew? And you let him? Rosalind, do you remember how much that bloody ticket cost?”
“I do, Christopher,” she answered mildly, “and we gave Andrew that ticket. It was his to do with what he wanted. And your wonderful son wanted to give it to his best friend as a birthday present because Rex had nothing else, and his family have had to move to a pokey little house in town.”
Her whole manner was approving and Foyle was taken aback. When he thought about it, it was an incredibly generous act, one that he wouldn’t have thought his son capable of; he knew how much Andrew had wanted to fly today. Yet he had relinquished the chance – for someone else. His chest swelled as he searched the crowd for his son’s dark hair.
The crowd were all looking up, their attention on the plane, with Rex aboard, it’s size diminishing as it’s altitude increased and the plane turned out to sea. He found Andrew sitting on the grass with Rex’s parents, still subdued despite their effusive thanks. He and Rosalind went to join them, Foyle musing that at least he wouldn’t have thirty minutes of worry and surprised that Mr and Mrs Talbot seemed quite unfazed by their son’s adventure. Rex’s father was telling them about his visit to the new railway station, opened just a couple of days previously, when they became aware of murmurs of surprise from the remaining observers. Looking up they saw the plane circling overhead. It shouldn’t be there, the flight was only halfway through its allotted time. Foyle’s heart began to pound – what was going on? Andrew stood up and moved forward for a better view.
The plane circled once more and came in to land. Rex clambered out and ran across the grass to where Andrew stood watching. A few words were exchanged, followed by clothing, and before Foyle could reach them his son was running to the plane, climbing up, waving and disappearing into the sky. Foyle stood helplessly, stomach churning, and felt a hand take his own.
“He’ll be all right, love,” Rosalind murmured, “Rex was, wasn’t he?”
They watched the plane fly low over the town then higher out to sea. Ten minutes later they watched as it executed a few simple manoeuvres before coming in to land.
Then Andrew was out and running, Rex was holding out his arms and the two boys were dancing round, clutching each other, thumping each other on the back and laughing as if they’d never stop.
“Rosalind Foyle,” he said, turning her to him and holding her close despite the people around them, “you have raised the most amazing son in the world.”
“I couldn’t have done it on my own, love,” she responded, her breath tickling his cheek. “I’m so proud of the two of you. He’s as generous and kind as you and I love you both.”
“And Rex was generous too,” he observed, “sharing the time with Andrew. A true friend, if ever there was.”
Now Christopher’s promotion had come through and they’d agreed that, despite the price Christopher had paid for the flight, Andrew deserved a special birthday gift. And she had found it, on a shopping trip to Tunbridge Wells - a construction kit, a model aeroplane, the one on the table being assembled with such care and attention. The two heads were still down, hands working deftly, both with tongues peeking out slightly with concentration – her two beautiful boys. She was, she thought, a very fortunate woman indeed.