Rather like you

by fanficrocks

Summary:

A look at what might have happened after "Goodbye, Sir"...

Chapter 1: Plans

 

Strange and Lewis felt like they were wading through treacle as they went about the business of wrapping up the Yvonne Harrison murder case. Any satisfaction they might have found in bringing a criminal to justice and breaking up a conspiracy of silence was entirely overshadowed by their crippling loss. To the rest of Thames Valley Police, DCI Morse might have been an institution—at once to be revered and feared. Or simultaneously envied and ridiculed, as some did. But to the two of them, he had been so much more. 

 

It was after more than two weeks of walking through a fog that they felt able to finally address what was uppermost in their minds. Morse’s body had been cremated, the JR turning down his wish to become a scientific curiosity in no uncertain terms. And in cognisance of his last wishes, there had been no memorial service, no funeral observance of any sort. Which in itself seemed to make everything so much worse. 

 

Lewis had taken charge of emptying all personal items such as books and pictures from Morse’s house and dispatching them to appropriate recipients. The majority had gone to Morse’s sister, and a few things had been sent to Ms. Cecil, also in Australia. Some—mostly books and music, plus a few pictures—stayed with Lewis, deeply treasured even if the majority were destined to remain safely boxed up. And then there were a select few mementoes from the old days that Lewis thought Strange would appreciate. 

 

Saturday found Strange driving to The Victoria Arms, where he had arranged to meet Lewis, deeming it a more appropriate venue than the station to collect the box of Morse’s things. It was a bright and mild evening, and Morse’s erstwhile sergeant was waiting for him at one of the outdoor tables, a pint of best bitter at the ready along with his own glass of orange juice. The thick turf muffled Strange’s footsteps as he approached, allowing him to take a good look at Lewis unobserved. That normally stoic young man (not so young any longer, Strange reminded himself) looked absolutely gutted, even more so than on the day of Morse’s cremation. 

 

“Well then, matey. What’ve we got here?”

 

Strange gingerly lowered himself onto the chair facing Lewis and pulled the small cardboard box on the table closer. The first thing that came to hand was an old photograph in a wooden frame - himself, Dr. Debryn, Shirley Trewlove, and Morse outside some pub on a summer evening at least thirty years prior. Behind that was a stack of opened airmail letters, all bearing American stamps. Ah, Peter Jakes. Who had obviously stayed in touch with Morse, and would now need to be informed of what had happened. 

 

“I found DS Jakes’ phone number in Morse’s address book and called him earlier in the week, Sir. His were the only letters Morse had preserved, aside from his sister’s and Ms. Cecil’s. So I thought it was important to let him know. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

 

“Not at all, Lewis. Thank you for doing that. Morse and Jakes - they go back a long time. He was DS when Morse was still a DC and I was just making my way from uniform to CID. I’m not sure how friendly they would have been had Jakes continued in CID, for their rivalry was legendary. But he left and emigrated, married an American. And going by these letters, has stayed in touch with Morse ever since.”

 

Strange returned his attention to the last item in the box, another framed photograph, this time from his wedding. Nothing posed, but a serendipitous candid shot taken as he and Joan made their way out of the reception hall towards the car; and one that had additionally captured Ms. Frazil, Dr. Debryn, Mr. Bright, and Win in the background, along with just a sliver of Fred’s profile at the edge. Yes, he could well understand why Morse had held on to this particular image. Unsentimental though Jim knew himself to be, even his eyes felt moist looking back at it.

 

“Thank you. I know the wife will appreciate having this one back, as do I. Almost everyone from that time is either already gone or scattered to the ends of the earth, but Morse’s passing still feels like the end of an era. An end he won’t even let us mark, damn him!”

 

“I know what you mean, Sir. Even without an actual funeral, it would have been good to have had some sort of gathering. Somewhere we could share our memories of him, honour him. Oh, I know there is the music scholarship he has set up. But beyond that. For instance, this is where he and I shared our last drink just before he got so very ill. He quoted poetry to me that evening, like he so often had done.”

 

“Ah, yes. Poetry, crosswords, and opera. Drove us all mad sometimes, including the Old Man. Yet it often was relevant to the case or to whatever else was going on at that time.”

 

“Aye. I looked it up later—it was by Housman, and seemed so… regretful. And he chose that day to recite it. Like he already knew the end was near and was thinking of unfulfilled dreams, broken promises.”

 

“That’s a bit profound for orange juice, Lewis. Sure you didn’t indulge in a wee dram before?”

 

Lewis huffed a reluctant laugh at this even as he shook his head. But what he had mentioned about the last drink shared with Morse had given Strange an idea. His round face with its multiple chins grew absolutely still as he pondered it further, then gave a decisive nod.

 

“Morse’s will - it forbade any sort of funeral service, religious or otherwise. Do I remember correctly?”

 

“You do, Sir.”

 

“So there is nothing to stop us from gathering a few friends here, is there? A riverfront pub on a summer evening, a few casks of best bitter, and enough tales of days gone by to fill the hours.”

 

Strange watched Lewis take in the idea, and was rewarded by a slow smile dawning, gradually banishing the pinched look of suppressed grief that had descended on that loyal face ever since…. Cutting off that thought, Strange rose, clapping the younger man on the shoulder and asking him to put together a list of officers from beyond Thames Valley whose paths had crossed Morse’s and who might therefore be interested in their unconventional memorial.  

 

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Jim Strange has convinced Robbie Lewis that they can hold a not-a-funeral gathering at Morse's favourite pub to mark his passing without going against the man's wishes. And on the day, Win invites herself along!

Strange turned into the car park at The Victoria Arms on a balmy Friday evening. He had seconded his PA to make the final arrangements for Morse’s not-a-memorial at the riverside pub, freeing Lewis (now officially a DI after quietly carrying that load for quite a while) to go home after work and change before taking on the role of de-facto host at the evening’s gathering. As he parked in the spot closest to the pub garden, right beside Lewis’ car, he was relieved to see Mrs. Lewis getting out on the passenger side. The evening could turn more emotional than either he or Lewis were prepared for, and it was good to have support. On the thought, his gaze went to the now physically frail yet vibrant old lady in the back seat. Joanie had unsurprisingly excused herself from today’s gathering, using the kids and their myriad activities as an excuse. But Win had insisted on coming. And now Jim had absolutely no idea what name to use for her in introductions. Was it safe enough to use Thursday, or should he stick with the pseudonym which would just not roll off his tongue despite all the years Fred and Win had used it?

 

A knock on his window brought his attention back to the here and now, and he looked around to see Lewis wave to him before stepping around to the passenger side and opening the rear door for Win. Giving mental thanks for the younger man’s instinctive courtesy, Strange heaved his not-inconsiderable bulk out of the car and locked up before joining the others on the footpath leading to the outside tables their party had commandeered. He still wished he had been able to talk Win out of coming today, and just wasn’t sure what she might let drop on topics that’d been off-limits for so long. But as they walked along, the Lewises slowing their pace to match Win’s, he realised there might not be any cause for concern after all. For Win, with a characteristic blend of candour and firmness, took complete control.

 

“I understand you were Morse’s bagman for years, Inspector.”

 

“Yes, ma’am, I was. I’m Robbie and this is my wife, Valerie. Could you please use my name? Or call me Lewis if you prefer. That title still feels…”

 

“Unfamiliar? I can imagine. When Morse first made Sergeant, he kept looking around at Jim every time someone called him that. Took a good few weeks to wear off, that did.”

 

“Ah, so you knew him in those days, ma’am?”

 

“Call me Win, dear. Yes, indeed, I knew them all since the early days. Morse was to be best man at Jim’s wedding, you know. But then he got himself tangled up in a complicated case and Peter had to step in at the last moment.”

 

The Lewises both looked mightily interested in this artless disclosure, and Strange was certain further questions were hovering on their lips. But before any could be asked, Win continued.

 

“Now, I know you are curious. To the rest of the folks we meet this evening, I am merely Jim’s doddering old mother-in-law who can’t be left alone at home. And even to you, all I can say is that my late husband ran afoul of a powerful criminal gang around the time of Jim’s wedding and we had to go into hiding as a result. So you don’t ask me any awkward questions, and I won’t tell you any porky pies.”

 

The colloquialism dropping from Win’s lips made them all laugh, and Valerie linked her arm in the old lady’s, turning the conversation instead to a recent newspaper article on millennium grants and planned renovations of heritage buildings around the country. Deciding that Win was in good hands and in absolutely no danger of letting any cats out of their respective bags, Strange turned towards the gathered police officers, joining Lewis in raising a toast to Morse. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Win found more than enough to hold her attention throughout the evening. There was of course a wicked sense of amusement in keeping Jim guessing – but surely, after so many years, he should know better and trust her more! However, the occasion could not but tug at her heartstrings. The old outliving the young always felt wrong, and even though life had forced her to experience it before, nothing could alter that fundamental truth. As Lewis, with Jim’s encouragement, spoke of his years with Morse and how much he had valued and learnt from his old mentor, Win caught herself unexpectedly giving thanks that Fred had not lived to see this day. And perhaps even more heartfelt thanks that he had been given the opportunity to meet, however fleetingly, the lad who would become Morse’s bagman and so much more over the years.

 

A sudden blast of music from a portable tape player made them all jump, then provided a moment of much-needed levity as many of the listeners recognised it as an instrumental rendition of The Ride of the Valkyries . Win looked on as Robbie wagged a finger admonishingly at a grinning young lad in uniform—the likely architect of the unexpected entertainment cum homage to Morse’s love of Wagner—while Valerie struggled to control her expression as Jim’s face went from red to puce before subsiding into its usual shade of pink.  

 

Settling more comfortably in her chair, Win continued to watch the crowd around her. The prevalence of denim and polo shirts struck an oddly discordant note when she thought of the sportscoats and buttondowns without ties that would have been the norm at such a gathering back in their day. But underneath that, was a sense of familiarity engendered by her long years as the wife of a senior policeman. The ways in which some of the more seasoned officers interacted with the youngsters brought almost a sense of deja vu , as though very little had changed in essence over the years. Watching the shifting tableau with a slight smile, Win felt the years roll back as fragments of memories jostled her brain.

 

A florid-faced man snapped at a young woman, and she distinctly heard Fred’s voice in her head, reminiscing about how Morse had once described a brash DI from Robbery as a fist with a warrant card. Behind them, a pair of young men who looked to be in their late twenties were lounging against the wall and exchanging observations with sideways glances and smothered grins, just as she had seen Jakes and Morse do on the occasions when they had landed up together at the house. Closer to hand a just-promoted sergeant was listening to his DI and looking for all the world like a puppy about to start wagging its tail, much like Jim used to whenever Fred took notice of him early on.  

 

Bringing her wandering attention back to the people sharing her table, Win was soon pulled into the ongoing conversation between Robbie, a young officer introduced as DC Kershaw, and Valerie. It appeared that Robbie was making arrangements for Kershaw to sit his Sergeant’s exam at the next offering while Valerie was quizzing him about his recent engagement and encouraging him to bring his fiancee across to theirs when she next visited. From there the conversation somehow turned to the merits of long versus short engagements, and whether a big wedding was worth the expense. Listening to the Lewises talk about their cash-strapped wedding more than 20 years ago, Win was transported much further back, all the way to 1941 and the start of something wonderful hand-in-hand with Fred despite those desperate and frenzied times.

 

A gentle touch on the forearm brought her back untold minutes later. Or woke her from a doze, if she was honest about it. And why shouldn’t she be, thought Win. After all, if a woman of almost 80 summers was not justified in letting the warm sun and gentle breeze lull her into a snooze, then who was? Ah, she was getting old! Now, that was something to smile about, given Joanie had been complaining not so long ago about feeling too old to do something or other the kids were keen on. 

 

Accepting that it was time she called it a day, Win started to gather her things. Valerie went off in search of Jim, while Robbie offered her an arm for the slow and careful walk back to the car park. As the car moved away, Win turned to the window and waved to Robbie and Valerie until they were out of sight, before sitting back and meeting Jim’s amused twinkle in the rearview mirror.

 

“So, do you think I made the right choice for Morse’s bagman all those years ago?”

 

“Yes, you did. Not that I had many doubts. You always understood him… as much as anyone other than Fred could.”

 

“I miss him, you know. I always will. He kept me on my toes, pushed me to do the best I could and not just settle.”

 

“Isn’t that what good friends do, Jim?”

 

“True. And despite our ups and downs, I have never had better.”

 

Once parked at the house, Win allowed Jim to help her out of the car and up the two steps onto the front porch, rather touched by her often undemonstrative son-in-law’s bumbling solicitousness. The kids had been waiting for them, and watching Jim getting drawn into mediating an intense argument around the dining table, Win couldn’t help wondering how Sam or Morse would have handled the same situation. The former had not lived long enough to have the opportunity, and as for the latter… well, he had failed—repeatedly—to recognise what could have been. Shaking her head over the pity of it all, Win excused herself and went to her room, pleading fatigue. 

 

Sinking into the armchair by the window, Win’s eyes traversed the bookshelf alongside. Stacks of Sam’s books from long ago, her own well-thumbed collection of Penguin Classics, the travelogues Fred had pored over so earnestly in his final months… planning, always planning, for that holiday to Greece and Italy that they had never quite managed. The scrapbook of newspaper articles mentioning Morse’s high-profile cases—articles Fred had collected assiduously from the Oxford Mail which had regularly been delivered via circuitous routes to their hidey-hole in the Northeast. It had become easier to update the scrapbook over the last few years, ever since she moved back to live with Joanie and Jim after Fred’s passing.

 

On the top of the bookshelf sat her greatest treasures, pictures of their family from the earliest days onwards beside the little box with Fred’s medals. And next to that, the small silver-framed photograph that never left her nowadays – Fred in his overcoat and green trilby, captured against the lilacs in their front garden in Oxford on a sunny spring morning just before Sam’s ill-advised foray into the army. 

 

Picking up the frame, she brought the beloved face to her lips before clasping it to her heart. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she needed to tell him tonight.

 

“You would’ve been proud of your Endeavour, love. His friends might not have been many, but they were for life. And you were absolutely right about his bagman all those years ago. The lad is true blue, loyal to the bone. Not to mention having a heart big enough and to spare – rather like you.”

—Fin—

Notes:

For the purposes of this fic, I have assumed that Fred Thursday predeceases Morse but Win outlives him. The former is obviously quite likely given how much older Fred was plus the not-so-safe life he had lived, and I hope the latter is sufficiently believable.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of A Good Lad