Disclaimer: Sam, her father, Foyle, Andrew, Brooke, Joe, Milner, and Edith are all the creations of Anthony Horowitz. No profit is sought hereby, and certainly not achieved.

To the reader: This website's typographical limitations have posed a real challenge to clarity in this story. Both writing and thinking are expressed by Italics; where one of these follows directly after the other, they are separated by a row of dots and thinking begins with a hyphen.

Monday 7th SEPTEMBER 1942

The rain shows no signs of stopping; indeed, the fiercest downpours seem timed to drench anyone who approaches Hastings Police headquarters, whether from the the front or from the rear. When Sam reaches the waiting room she finds Sergeant Brooke mopping up the rainwater that has dripped from department personnel and their umbrellas.

'Tell you what, Miss Stewart, you can put your brolly in there,' he directs her, pointing at a tall rubbish bin. 'Looks like we're really in for it. Though I suppose,' he goes on cheerfully, 'that might mean fewer incidents. More rain, less crime.'

'That would suit me down to the ground,' Sam remarks.

'Thought you liked police work!' Brooke teases her.

'I do,' Sam replies earnestly, 'but I haven't caught up yet with all of the thank-you letters that I need to write and I can do that today, or some of it, if I don't have to take the car out. I only hope my letter paper didn't get wet,' she goes on, tugging at her haversack.

It seems to be all right. Sitting down on the waiting room bench, Sam pulls out the haversack's contents: paper, envelopes, stamps, her fountain pen, her diary and a letter from Aunt Amy, just arrived. She would like to read the letter first but Don't procrastinate, she tells herself. Pick one of the letters you need to write, and just write it.

She takes a sheet of paper and puts it down on the surface of the bench, then pulls the cap from her pen. If she positions the paper at just the right angle she can lean over and write on it without too much damage to her handwriting.

In c/o Mrs Hardcastle, no. 25, Stonefield Road
(but writing from Hastings Police HQ)

7 September 1942

Dear Joe,

There are several reasons for this letter, one of which is to thank you for the beautiful lipstick, and for entrusting it to my friend Glenda Lyle. You really ought not to have gone to such trouble!

'What's this?' Brooke asks, surprised. 'You could sit over 'ere, you know, if you're going to do that. Can't 'ave people coming in and seeing you looking like a contortionist.'

'Hmm? Oh, thank you!' Sam gathers up her belongings and moves to the sergeant's own small desk.

Thank you as well for the lovely card and simply for being so nice about everything, and please accept my congratulations on your most well-deserved promotion!

I am sorry to be so tardy with this letter, but in fact I haven't written any of the other letters that I ought to have done recently. I went back to work last week after my convalescence. I am under doctor's orders not to allow myself to become overtired, and am doing my best to comply, but even so

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

- I really ought to have begun with one of the uncles, Sam thinks. No need to explain much of anything to any of them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

the week was much more eventful than I expected.

I've been reliably informed (by Glenda in fact) that several members of the 215th have applied to be transferred, but that none of the requests has been granted, so that you will all be here until the job is finished – no later than the end of November, Glenda tells me, but that's long enough that we may see each other in Hastings. If that happens you may see me in the company of a particular person and I think that I ought to explain who that is.

When we met you asked if I had a boyfriend and I said that I did, which was true. When I accepted your invitation to the dance you asked if he'd mind and I said that I didn't think so. That was true as well. The simplest way of explaining this is to say that in between times he and I

Brooke hears the scratching of Sam's pen come to a halt. He glances in her direction and sees her lost in thought.

She begins writing again.

had a huge misunderstanding which made me think that we were finished. He believed so as well at the time. However last week he returned to Hastings after being stationed in Essex (northeast of London) for a year and a half and it seems that we aren't.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

- None of which is actually untrue, Sam says to herself.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The fact is though that I knew this when you and I were walking out,

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

- Partly true, at least ...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

even if I wasn't willing to admit it to myself, and that is part of why I had to refuse your proposal. I know that I ought to have been more honest with you, and another reason that I am writing this letter is to apologise for not having done so. Then again, perhaps I couldn't have been honest with you, since I wasn't being honest with myself either.

I wish you every happiness and all the luck in the world. I hope that you won't mind my telling you that Glenda mentioned to me that she saw you in the lobby at the Ruby on Saturday. She said that you looked as though you were having a very good time and I'm tremendously glad of that.

Best wishes always,

Sam Stewart

Sam reads her letter to Joe once, then twice. Only just adequate, she decides, but I can't tell him more than that without repeating official secrets – or taking the risk of hurting his feelings.

Her hand aches from gripping her pen too tightly. Suddenly she feels more tired than she has in a week. She carefully folds the letter, quickly writes Joe's address on an envelope, affixes a stamp onto it, slips the letter inside and seals it closed. Then she reaches into her haversack and draws out the letter from Aunt Amy.

Braithfield Farm
Fullerton Road
Red Rice, Andover, Hampshire

4 September 1942

My dear Sam,

It was wonderful to see you on Wednesday, even for so short a visit, and I hope that you enjoyed it as much as I did! The visit to your posting, if that's the correct way of putting it, was quite fascinating, and it was most gratifying to see that you are so highly regarded there. Please do remember me to all of your colleagues. In retrospect I do have to say that it's odd that they haven't given you your own office, or at least a desk! As it was a shortage of personnel that created the need for a driver, it follows that there must be some space available in the station house where you could have your own base of operations. Merely a suggestion, but you might give it some thought.

'Finished writing your letters, then, Miss Stewart?' Brooke asks cheerfully.

'Oh – actually, Brookie, I'm not. I have a letter from my aunt – you met her last week – so I'm reading that, for a respite. She asks to be remembered to you.'

'Well, that's very nice. You can sit over there and read, though. 'Fraid I need my desk back.'

Aunt Amy's point exactly, Sam thinks, but she moves her belongings back to the waiting room bench.

There was a fair amount of excitement here while I was away. Letters arrived from all of your cousins. All of them mentioned having sent cards for your birthday, and all expressed great concern about you: I hope, my dear, that you have written back to each of them.

Sam experiences a guilty pang.

They are all doing well. I am slightly concerned about Alex and Teddy who as third-generation Scots Guardsmen seem to be receiving more deference than they are really entitled to. (The fact that they are twins also appears to have impressed itself too strongly upon the minds of their superiors.) I can only hope that they won't take it all too seriously. Alex may have written to you too long ago to be able to say that he has just been promoted to the rank of captain; funnily enough, Teddy didn't offer us his views on this. In any event it ought to lead to some promotion leave, although I can't imagine where one would take leave where they are. Of course I would dearly like to see both of them transferred to some less hazardous duty. Valerie, Peter and Iona are still managing pretty well in Alex's absence and I've noticed that Valerie has become far more self-confident than in the past.

Laura, meanwhile, is quite enchanted with Cheshire and even seems to have been getting, if not her feet, then at least a toe or two wet in the life of Great Paxton. Her father, ever the optimist, wonders if this means that his spinster daughter is quite enchanted with someone in Cheshire and has finally found her destined husband. (I've felt it best to refrain from saying anything to that other than 'Hm.') She hasn't much free time, of course. You've probably read in the paper by now that there is to be an increased call-up of women next year. Mercifully, you won't be effected by this, but hundreds of thousands of other girls will, so Laura and her comrades in Training Command are going to have their hands even more full than they do now.

In addition to all of this, I arrived home to find that a small miracle took place in my absence: your dear Uncle Michael has decided that we must get on the telephone! This appears to be the influence of the Women's Land Army, whose leaders have become concerned that the girls who are billeted with us are excessively isolated without access to one. We can't afford to become an undesirable assignment, as your uncle now says. Naturally this comes at a time when almost any improvement to the property is impossible, or at best requires a very long wait. On the other hand perhaps that will be for the best, as your uncle thinks at present that it ought to be installed in either the shed or the barn, which would somewhat limit its usefulness, wouldn't you agree? A delay will give him time to see even more sense than he already has.

Now then, my dear – it will not surprise you to learn that I have given our conversation of Wednesday evening a great deal of thought, and I hope that you won't object if I offer you an additional round of advice.

I ought to begin by telling you that I stopped in Lyminster on my way back to Braithfield and passed a few hours with your parents. Your observation that your father's and my generation of Stewarts have difficulty keeping secrets from one another is sadly accurate; but you may rest assured that I did keep yours and will continue to do so for as long as you find it advisable.

That said, and all being well, as Uncle Michael and I feel optimistic that it is – please do write and tell us! – I really do think that the time has arrived for you to announce Flt Lt Foyle's existence to your parents. You are likely to find that they are more accepting of the situation than you anticipate. They will probably want to be introduced to him, but that can be arranged at everyone's convenience. (You might find it necessary to mention that you and he were estranged for a few months, but there will be no need to explain the reason, or at least not in any detail. I would not recommend telling them about your other suitor. That would only confuse them.)

Regardless, I also want to urge you to visit Lyminster yourself. While I quite understand your wish to place some distance between yourself and your childhood home, I hadn't realised that you've not been back since your departure nearly three years ago! Do you remember how we wrote at that time of the war seeming like a sort of gift for many young people? You will find that it has been that for your parents as well. Your father, always a fine liturgist and a decent preacher, has become a much better minister, both more decisive and less judgmental. As for your mother, while I would not go so far as to describe her as the picture of health, she does seem to have got a new lease of life. She has begun attending meetings of the Lyminster Women's Institute (something that I have been urging her to do for longer than I care to recall), become somewhat more involved than previously in parish life and seems to have found her way back into the kitchen on a regular basis – with fairly decent results, at least on the evidence of a single visit. My suggestion that she visit you in Hastings was coolly received, however, so the ball is in your court. Your parents love you, Sam; they do worry about you (and your recent illness hasn't helped in that department), but they are also very proud of you.

There is one other subject on which I will take the liberty of sharing my thoughts. I am sorry if I unsettled you on Wednesday, as indeed I could clearly see that I did, with my question about intimate matters. It is a decision that you may very well find yourself having to make, nevertheless – if not with regard to your airman, then about some future suitor. As I said then, this is a very old problem; and while you may rest assured that I would not judge you harshly for taking that leap 'without benefit of clergy' – a phrase that I use advisedly, as I certainly wouldn't say the same of your parents or your uncles – I must emphasise that I do not wish to see you sacrifice yourself. What I mean by that is that a woman will sometimes take it into her head that she can relieve a man's burdens by giving herself to him, in a seemingly heroic act, regardless of the risk involved. This notion becomes particularly attractive in wartime, from what I've observed, but it's no more true in war than it is in peace. No – if you are going to allow a man that degree of intimacy outside of the bonds of marriage, then it must be something that you want for yourself.

Then there is the problem of alleviating the risk I mentioned above. Here, alas, I am afraid that I must let you down a bit. On Wednesday I said that it has become 'somewhat easier not to get caught,' or something to that effect. While I am quite certain that this is true, it is the better part of two decades since I have had to think about this on my own behalf; and of course I had long since left nursing for domestic life by then; and then even when I was a nurse my remit was caring for injured and ailing soldiers, not for their wives and daughters. The result of all this is that I have no useful – which is to say no up-to-date – information which which I can provide you. I thought of asking a younger woman, but neither Valerie nor Marjorie Tazewell, my neighbor in Stockbridge Road whom you may recall, are the sort with whom one can discuss this question (and with five children I must assume that Mrs T simply doesn't avail herself). The best advice I can offer is to consult a woman doctor, if there is one in Hastings – or, of course, a nurse! Does your circle in Hastings include any nurses?

Sam lets her breath out after realising abruptly that she has been holding it in for several seconds. She wonders if she's blushing; although, to her surprise, her face doesn't feel hot at all.

- It does, she thinks, silently answering her aunt's question.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I see that I have played my usual trick of expressing myself at far greater length than I had planned to do. It is now quite late, and I must close this if I am to give it to the postman tomorrow morning. Again, I am hopeful that all is well with you – and even more hopeful that you will write and tell us soon!

Your most fond aunt,

Amy Braithwaite

No wonder Dad and Mother think that Aunt Amy is a troublemaker, Sam thinks. And they already know that we had a visit last week.

She has already made up her mind to tell her parents about Andrew, but I shall have to be especially careful of what I write, she decides.

Brooke is still at his desk; Sam gathers up her things.

'Brookie, I'm going to go sit in the canteen, if anyone needs to speak to me.'

'It's not even eleven o'clock, Miss Stewart – Mrs Threadgill won't let you in there at this hour.'

'Well, then, I'll be in the kitchen.'