A/N: Some answers at last...
Chapter 7
May 1945
Andrew stared at Sam across the interior of the Wolseley. He loosened his collar and ran a hand through his hair, recalling Foyle's edginess on his first night of leave. Something clicked into place. "So that's why…" He shook his head, "You were away recovering from being ill and he never told me while I was home on leave. He'd just spent days by your bedside and he never…"
He frowned. "Bloody hell."
"I'm sure he had his reasons," said Sam soothingly.
"Hmm, I suppose. I can't believe he didn't mention it…" Andrew still looked a bit put out.
"So, what happened next?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I recovered; slowly at first, but then more quickly. After a few weeks at home to rest and to take stock, I suppose…I returned to Hastings. I threw myself into the job because it was all I had, and I couldn't bear not to be near him."
"He must have noticed?"
Sam shifted in her seat, smiling, "Perhaps, but I had left all that behind. I knew it was impossible, even if he did feel something for me. I thought it was for the best to leave it be…I was afraid of losing him completely. I just carried on as normally as possible."
"So you…just ignored what you felt?" Andrew shook his head, "I could never do that."
"Yes. I know." She looked at him shrewdly and he winced, realising his words.
"Sorry. So what changed to bring you together then?"
"You know, Andrew, you're awfully curious. Just like your father." She smiled warmly at him, finding his tenacity endearing and perceptive.
She shifted again, her back beginning to ache. "Look, why don't we move on to somewhere more comfortable. I feel like a balloon."
"You aren't putting me off, I hope?" Andrew grinned. "No, of course — where shall we go? A pub?"
"Not home?"
"I'd rather wait to see Dad first, if you don't mind, Sam. He might not want me there."
"Don't be silly, Andrew. Of course he will. But I am starving. Let's go somewhere nearby for lunch."
"All right. As long as it has beer…" Andrew grimaced and added, "I might be in need of it."
Sam brought the engine to life and slid into gear, driving them along the coast road to a small collection of buildings. Before the war it had been a popular section of beach, shops busy selling ice creams and buckets. Now there was just the old inn still open, mouldering near the sloping edge of beach.
"I could murder an ice cream," said Sam wistfully.
"Then Dad would have to put you on a charge for a wilful act of violence…or something."
Sam smirked at some private memory and muttered, "Indeed."
She pulled to a stop outside the inn and they got out. Andrew hurried to her side to help her and offered her his arm as they walked across the gravel. Up close she saw more clearly the lines that had gathered on his forehead from stress, and the shadow of ill health that hadn't quite left his face yet. A faint hint of stubble was beginning on his chin. In this silent study she saw now only aspects of his father. She suspected, however, that Andrew wouldn't lose his hair as quickly.
Inside they found a comfortable table and the proprietor came to Sam's rescue with a suggestion of, "I believe I have something that will be to your liking. A lovely bit of roast chicken. The end of the war and all that, and you two such a lovely couple. You just back then, sir?"
"Yes. Today in fact. But—"
"A drink on the house for you, sir!"
"Thank you. By the way—"
"They haven't actually announced the end," Sam cut in, "I do wish they would, it seems silly to keep holding on."
Andrew looked a bit bemused at being mistaken as Sam's husband, and would have corrected the man if he had been able to get a word in edge-wise.
"I do hope Mr Churchill will announce it soon," Sam added.
"Any day now, madam, any day now," said the proprietor tapping his nose. He went off behind the bar, humming to himself contentedly.
"Right. Continue with your story?" Andrew asked swiftly.
Sam nodded, "Yes, where was I?" She thought a moment, "Oh yes."
Settling back comfortably she began, "Well, do you remember a Lydia Nicholson — she is your father's God-daughter. Her father was his commanding officer."
Andrew frowned, trying to place her. "Y-yes, I think I know who you mean. I only met her once when I was very small."
They paused as the proprietor returned with their drinks.
When he had left them alone again, Andrew looked at Sam, "But what does she have to do with you two? Honestly, Sam, has he been giving you evasion tactics with your morning tea? You haven't properly answered a thing."
"Don't be so impatient," Sam laughed. He rolled his eyes and grinned.
"She came to Hastings with her son in the spring of 1943."
"Isn't that when Dad resigned?"
"Andrew."
"Right. Do continue." He folded his arms across his chest.
"As I was saying," Sam began. "Lydia came to Hastings with her young son. He had been in the Sandhurst Road School bombing. He was quite unhurt, but wouldn't speak a word afterwards, poor little chap. She was rather at her wits end and no family to speak of. She and your father hadn't spoken for years because she had eloped and broken contact with everyone."
Sam paused to take a sip of her lemonade. "On the second day of their stay with your father, she posted a letter to him and left. Just left James, her son, for your father to look after."
"Golly," Andrew breathed, "did she intend to do herself harm or did she just run off?"
"She walked into the sea with stones in her pockets."
Andrew shook his head, "Poor thing."
"Your father asked for my help to look after James. He was up to his ears in uncovering a gambling racket and acts of sabotage along the coast. It was really the last thing he needed. As I said before, the little chap wouldn't speak a word. He just sat looking out into space. I hadn't a clue what to do with him, really, but we muddled through. On the third day of this I thought taking him out into the woods might help — you know, picnic and fresh air. In the end I suppose, despite what happened, it did help."
Andrew leaned forward, "What happened?"
Sam rested her chin in her hands. "I'll tell you. Then perhaps you will understand why we came together as we did."
Andrew nodded, his full attention on her. He leaned in even closer, elbows on the table edge. He was desperate to understand.
Spring 1943
Foyle walked slowly down the echoing stairs of the hospital. He was very glad that Lydia had been found in time, but his heart felt heavy with the actions she'd taken. Her poor boy must feel so abandoned too. Foyle wished he could speak with him, but James didn't seem to take in anything around him. He hoped Sam's idea of a spot of fresh air with a picnic in the woods might help matters.
Unfortunately, it was just another worry on his already full desk. The new commissioner wouldn't leave off and let him get on with things, and now with Lydia and James being here… Foyle sighed heavily. Thank goodness for Sam. An indomitable spirit if there ever was one; she accepted her new role of child care without qualm or question, and continued to encourage him with her words of support. He would have to prevail on her for a few days more until Lydia could come home.
Not for the first time, Foyle asked himself what he would do without Sam. The fact that he felt he couldn't do without her was telling. He had done well at pushing away more than companionable concern and attention in the last year, hard as it was. The few weeks she had spent away after her illness had brought him up short, and he was grateful she had returned to them in her usual spirits.
He hoped, in a self-effacing way, that she would find someone else. A younger, lively, caring someone that would take her away from war and hardship and make a fulfilling future with her. He didn't want to lose her, but he didn't want her waiting around Hastings, hoping for something he could never give her. What would people say? As much as it burdened him, he did his best to let his feelings slip to the wayside. It's better for her this way, he reasoned with himself. She'd be better off with Milner…or Brookie or any other man…
Foyle frowned pensively, feeling suddenly sorry for himself. There had been a time he had thought Milner and Sam would come together, and it had been excruciating to watch. After she'd returned from her stint in hospital however, Sam had seemed indifferent to his sergeant. Which of course had led him to wonder for the umpteenth time why she had gone back to Lyminster like she had…almost as if she had been running away from something…
Glad of the fresh air and brisk walk, Foyle tried to take himself in hand. Sam deserved someone young and full of promise, and that was the end of it. Time to stop wondering over the past. He would carry on as usual. He nodded to himself firmly, chewing his lip in frustration. I'll try, anyway.
Upon returning to the station, Milner called out to Foyle, catching Brookie's eye as he did so. Foyle looked up, swaying on his toes like a dancer. He'd still been deep in thought about the cases piling up on his desk, and Milner's strained voice had startled him.
"Sir, Sam and James were involved in…in an incident in the woods." Milner paused, tapping a pencil against his hand in agitation, "Those two lads we were trying to find, Terry and Frank, blew up a small bomb in the middle of the woods. Sam and James were nearby — they are both fine, sir, a bit knocked about, but both perfectly fine."
The colour had drained from Foyle's face and at "perfectly fine," he whipped around to Brookie.
"Get the car."
"Yes, Mr Foyle."
Foyle looked back at Milner, "Where are they?"
"At your house, sir. We're looking for Terry and Frank now. No one was hurt, thank goodness."
Foyle nodded, "Right, thank you, Milner." He pivoted on his heel, going back out to find Brookie starting the engine of a police car. Chewing his cheek furiously he slid in next to the young sergeant.
"As fast as you can, Sergeant Brooke."
"Right you are, sir."
At Steep Lane Foyle didn't wait for Brookie to pull away before racing up the steps. Entering his house he called out, endeavouring to keep the panic from his voice and not entirely succeeding.
"Sam!"
He burst in to the lounge, still in his coat and hat, eyes wide and searching.
"Here, sir."
She came in from the kitchen, uniform jacket off, tie loosened. Her hair was dishevelled and Foyle spied a stray leaf stuck in her curls. There was a slight smudge of dirt on her cheek, still quite pale underneath the freckles, and a tear in her stockings. The fear in his eyes retreated as he saw her whole before him.
He took his hat off, eyes finding hers. "You both all right?"
"We're fine," she said steadily. "All in one piece."
Foyle saw, however, the slight dip of her eyebrows. A betraying frown of an attempt to keep emotion in check. Something inside him snapped, crumbling beyond a place where he might capture it again. He crossed the lounge with long strides, taking her up in his arms without a word. He realised he was trembling, the sudden relief of knowing she was all right welling up in him.
The grip of her arms around his neck tightened, and she drew her breath in slowly. Foyle stepped into the embrace properly, feeling her body — her beautiful, whole, unhurt body — against his own. Quite unconsciously he turned his head slightly to nuzzle into her neck, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He murmured, "I might have lost you."
"We're all right, really. James is fine." Her fingers found their way to his hair, stroking the soft curls at his neck soothingly, "He's quite changed in fact. Seems to have released the flood gates, as it were. It's all come unstuck — he kept shouting for a Mrs Jukes. Poor little chap."
"I'm sorry, Sam. I never can seem to keep you out of trouble, can I?"
"You weren't to know," she whispered with a little huff of laughter.
"Where is he?"
"I sent him up to get ready for a bath. Our picnic was rather ruined, as you might imagine, so I'm afraid I've raided your larder. I thought it best to eat something first."
Foyle smiled at this and pulled back to face her. "Good."
Their foreheads were nearly touching and his hands were clasped about her arms. Catching each other's eyes, something passed between them in the look and Sam smiled softly, knowingly even — a warm flush returning to her cheeks.
Feeling suddenly a bit awkward, having realised his boldness, Foyle closed his eyes and hung his head, "S-sorry." He squeezed her arm, "I was, um, worried…"
She was saved from answering as a little voice behind them said, "Where's my mummy. I want my mummy. What've you done with 'er?"
Foyle released Sam immediately, and turned sharply, coat swishing around him. He looked down at the small boy, who clearly hadn't gotten ready for a bath beyond taking off his pullover and letting his socks gather about his ankles. He was covered in dirt and looked up into Foyle's face indignantly.
"I haven't done anything with her, James. Your Mum is, er, not very well and is in hospital to have a bit of a rest. We'll go see her tomorrow."
The boy crossed his arms and looked defiant. "It's Jimmy. No one calls me James, only 'er. And I don't like it 'ere."
"Right." Foyle glanced back at Sam in amusement, catching her eye.
Sam stepped around Foyle with a grin, "Right then, young sir, let's get you into that bath." She steered him towards the stairs by his shoulders.
"I don't want a bath; I told you…" he stomped his foot on the first step as if to make his point.
"Be that as it may, you'll be having one. Now up you go…" replied Sam firmly. She shot a glance back at Foyle in the lounge, who was looking rather deflated in his coat, hat held limply in his hand.
"There's a bit of bread left and an egg or two."
He nodded at her, smiling, watching her trudge up the stairs behind Jimmy. Taking a deep breath, Foyle closed his eyes. Thank you, God. Perhaps he should feel guilty for being so familiar with her, at taking such liberties and assuming, but he didn't. It felt only normal and right. It shouldn't, but Foyle felt suddenly weary. His heart wasn't in fighting his emotions any longer.
Peeling off his coat, he hung it and his hat in the hall. The bathroom door was open and he heard a splash of water and the undignified yelp of a six year old boy's pride being doused. Foyle grinned, remembering back to his own son at bath time. Why is it boys never want to get clean? He shook his head, thinking Sam would have her work cut out for her. Her voice from upstairs made him pause.
"If you hold still, it will make it all the less tiresome and you'll be out much more quickly."
There was a small grumbling voice and Sam's firm reply, "Now no cheek from you, Jimmy. It isn't all that awful."
Foyle heard the little voice again, "Why was you 'olding Uncle Christopher? You aren't 'is wife? My mum said 'e 'ad no wife and I wasn't to ask about it."
"No, I'm not his wife. But we've had rather an adventure today and he was making sure we were all right."
There was another splash and the curious little voice continued, "But why?"
"Well, your Uncle Christopher wanted to be reassuring."
"Reassur…?" Jimmy stopped, uncertain of the word. "Well, I don't like 'im."
"Jimmy," Sam said evenly, "he's a good man. He was worried about us."
"Yeah, but 'e's a copper. I don't like coppers."
"That's right, he is, and it's no reason not to like him. He's a very good policeman. And if you don't hold still and let me wash your hair I'll ask him to put you in prison for the night."
Foyle chuckled and left her to it, going back into the lounge. He poured a stiff whiskey, and after a thought, poured a second glass for Sam. Her words drifted through his mind and he smiled softly. In the kitchen he quickly fried an egg and put it with some bread. As he sat at the table he thought about Sam.
He had constantly tried his best not to — she was his much younger driver, and it was entirely inappropriate. Yet, he couldn't shake the recent memory of her body against his own and the relief he'd felt when seeing she was all right. He bit his lip, remembering her fingers in his hair and how she had melted into his arms. Even trying to remind himself that he had never intended to become so close with her didn't help, because after all his good intentions, here he was.
She had been Andrew's girl; she was his driver; she was far too young; he had no right…all these things crossed his mind, and he squared his shoulders. Stop this now, Foyle he told himself firmly. He would apologise and hope Sam would forgive him for being so forward.
As he washed up he tried to steel his resolve, but found it was more difficult than it had ever been before. I should be used to this by now, he thought ruefully. He was putting away the plates and frying pan when she came back down.
"He's asleep. Tired out from today I should think, poor boy."
Foyle closed the cupboard and turned, "Thank you, Sam. I appreciate all you've done for him."
She had washed her face and combed out her hair in an attempt to clean away the after effects from the bomb. Smelling of his soap and of something else entirely her own, Foyle felt his insides give a pleasant leap as she came closer.
Sam looked at him brightly, "I don't mind at all. Is his mother going to be all right?"
"Eventually. I'll take him to see her tomorrow."
"Good luck is all I can say. He doesn't much care for 'coppers' apparently."
"Hmm, so I heard."
Sam blushed to Foyle's surprise. Thinking it had to do with Jimmy's questions about his embrace, he cleared his throat.
"I apologise for being so forward earlier, Sam. I do hope you…"
She cut him off, "Don't." Coming towards him, she lay a hand on his arm, "Please don't be sorry. I was rather in need of it." She smiled warmly, glancing up at him.
He nodded and cleared his throat again. Holding up the second tumbler he said, "Er...a drink?"
