THURSDAY 3 SEPTEMBER

When Mrs Hardcastle's tenants leave her house in the morning they find a handwritten sign tacked up on the inside of the front door:

Drinks
To celebrate Glenda being commissioned
Friday 6.30 (1830 h) or so
The Silver Horn
First round is mine

- Sam Stewart

Sam herself has already left for the day. This is the earliest she can ever remember arriving at Mr Foyle's house. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, she will have time...

No. She arrives to find a lorry parked in front of the house where she usually leaves the car; something is being unloaded into the tall grey house around the corner. She leaves the Wolseley around the other corner, across from St Clement's parish house, then mounts the steps to no. 31 and knocks at the door.

No. Mr Foyle is waiting for her, ready to leave.

'Morning, Sam – excellent timing. There's been a report of a break-in. We're going to the station to collect Milner and then we'll go to the scene.'

As they turn right to go to the car Sam looks through the sitting room widows and sees that Andrew has stationed himself there and is watching them leave. Perhaps her smile will tell him what she wants to say to him.

Part of it, at least.

'Is it another burglary, sir?' And if it is, what will we do about it?

'We-ll, that's hard to say at this point.' Mr Foyle pauses before continuing, as if he were deciding what, or how much, to tell her. 'Brooke tells me the caller wasn't entirely coherent. A break-in – that's as much as we know at this point.' Then, to Sam's surprise, he changes the subject. 'Have a good visit with your aunt last night?'

'Oh – yes, sir, it was very good to see her. I owe her a great deal, you know. It was her idea that I ought to join the MTC when the war broke out, which is how I came to be here, after all. And,' Sam goes on before she can start wondering if she's about to say too much, 'her visit was very... well-timed. Very welcome.'

'Mm. No regrets about coming to Hastings, then?'

'The MTC posted me here, sir.'

'And you never thought about applying for a transfer?'

'No, sir, never,' Sam answers slowly. 'Why do you ask, sir?'

'The most important reason right now,' Mr Foyle says, glancing away from her, 'is that after we go to the station our next stop will be MTC Hastings Area Command. Mrs Bradley reported the break-in there. And since she and I have had several conversations during which she's made it clear that she thinks I'm padding the reports I'm obliged to send her every month about the work you've been doing for the Hastings Police I think you'd better come in with us – so that she can see that we're keeping you busy. You won't mind that, will you, Sam?' he goes on. 'I know how much you dislike staying with the car while Milner and I are conducting an investigation.'

Sam is actually rather fond of the MTC premises in Hastings, a brick edifice from the '80's that was built, she recalls being told, to house an electric lighting company. And the noisy, barely-controlled chaos that Sam remembers from when she worked here is absent now.

That turns out to be the case because a group of MTC mechanics are standing about looking abashed. And the quiet that Foyle, Milner and Sam find when they enter is soon replaced by the sound of Mrs Bradley's voice.

'This is outrageous! If you people can't maintain enough law and order to allow the war effort to go forward, then we might as well pack it in!'

The doors to the building's loading dock have been smashed in, although Milner reports that it looks as though someone attempted to pick the lock first.

There is no damage to any of the vehicles in the MTC's care; nor are any of them gone. But a large storage closet has also been broken into, and when Mrs Bradley is finally persuaded to have a look around and see if anything is missing, she reports that indeed there is.

'There was a standing typewriter in here!' she screeches.

'A standing typewriter?' Milner asks.

'On legs. It was here when the MTC took over this building!'

'Do you mean a book typewriter, ma'am?' Sam asks.

The slight softening of Mrs Bradley's personality that Sam observed from her hospital bed last month has vanished.

'I didn't give you permission to address me, Stewart!'

'Thank you, Sam,' Mr Foyle intervenes. 'Mrs Bradley, I believe Miss Stewart is correct – the piece of equipment you're describing is often referred to as a book typewriter. Was it in good working order?'

'Yes – and a good thing, too! Not one of these girls they've sent me can write legibly, so we use that for keeping the ledgers – or we did. I don't know what I'll do now.'

'What are we going to do?' Sam asks once they all are safely back in the car.

'We aren't going to do anything,' Mr Foyle replies. 'I will file a report with the A.C.C.'s office asking for instructions in light of Tuesday's briefing.'

Sam leaves Mr Foyle and and Milner in front of the station and takes the car around to the back. She removes the car's distributor cap and carries it into the station through the rear entrance.

On her way to the waiting area she passes by Milner, who says nothing but smiles at her in a way that she can't read at first.

Then she can. Her step quickens.

In the waiting area Andrew is chatting with Brooke, who starts to introduce the two of them.

'Oh, thank you, Sergeant, Miss Stewart and I have been introduced before this,' Andrew says.

Sam puts the distributor cap in its agreed-upon place, the upper left-hand corner of Brooke's desk.

'I'm going back out to the car, Brookie, if anyone wants to know where I am,' she announces. 'I want to see what state the boot is in. It's been a month since I looked in there!'

Andrew waits for nearly two minutes after Sam leaves before saying that he's taken up too much of Sergeant Brooke's time and excusing himself. He is already out of the front door before he realises that he's left without making even a pretence of looking in on his father.

Dad's office is on the east side of the building, he remembers. He decides to go around the west side.

But the kitchen and the canteen are on the west side, so anybody might see me if I go that way. Possibly including Dad.

Nothing for it but to take the risk.

Too late, Andrew remembers that there's no access to the yard from the west side in any case – a brick wall slightly too high to see over blocks his way.

Backtracking, he finds a familiar-looking constable – Oh, blast, the chap from Tuesday, what was his name? Peters, that's it; Sam didn't think too highly of him – looking out of the kitchen window.

Heart pounding, he walks around the east side of the station. He comes to a halt just before his path will bring him within sight of his father's office window, then hurries past as quickly as he can, turning his face away.

Sam has parked the Wolseley at the far end of the lot. The bonnet is raised and, true to her word, she's surveying the boot's contents – a starting handle, a wheel brace, a box spanner, plain spanners in several sizes, a first-aid kit and two blankets – when Andrew finds her behind it.

'Hello, Sam.'

'Hello, Andrew,' Sam says, more quietly and less steadily than she had imagined doing. 'I'm... very glad you're here. I came by early this morning because I wanted... to talk to you about something, but as it turned out there wasn't time.'

'Well. I'm here now.'

Sam nods. She has been holding one of the blankets but tosses it back into the boot. Then she takes two steps towards Andrew so that she is standing closer to him than she has since before he was transferred to Debden and grasps one of his hands with each of her own. His eyes widen.

'I love you,' she says. 'I'm quite frightened by that, because you might be sent away again, or worse, and because of everything I've learned about both of us in the past two years, and because of what I've learned during the past two days about what a war can do to the people who are fighting it.'

'If it frightens you, it terrifies me.'

'Why?'

'Because you're infinitely better than I deserve, and because I know what I'm like, even though I love you also, Sam,' Andrew replies. 'I thought that simply knowing that, and knowing that you love me, would make me... wiser, I suppose, or stronger, or less selfish, but it hasn't. And if that didn't do the trick, then I have no idea what will.'

'I do love you, though, and if you want us to make a new start, to rebuild, I will do that with you – on two conditions.'

'Tell me what they are,' Andrew says, almost in a whisper.

'We must tell your father right away. Slipping about behind his back last time, or trying to, turned out to be rather pointless. And I think we hurt his feelings a bit, actually.'

'You think so, and I know it! I got an earful, in writing, a couple of days after I got to Debden.'

'Oh, golly! Not a very good way to get started there.'

'No. Though it was sort of portentous.'

The word dictionary floats through Sam's mind.

'Sorry,' she says. 'Sort of what?'

'Portentous. A bad omen, indicative of things to come. I agree with you, though. That was very poor judgment on my part.'

'On both our parts,' Sam replies. 'And I will, I promise, write to my parents as soon as I can and tell them about you. I never did do that before. Aunt Amy is the only person in my family who knows that you exist – Uncle Michael will by the end of the day – and that's only because you met her yesterday. My parents would only have... assumed the worst, and they'll probably do that now, but it doesn't matter any longer.'

'All right. For whatever it might be worth, my uncle and aunt and cousins do know about you,' says Andrew. 'They're probably wondering why they've heard nothing about you for months now. I'll have to decide what to tell them about that. What's the second condition, Sam?'

Sam's face and voice are suddenly very serious.

'You must promise never to lie to me again, not about anything,' she tells him. 'If you do, we're finished.'

For a second they are all but stock still, looking silently into each other's eyes.

'Do you understand what that's liable to mean, Sam?' Andrew asks. 'Neither of us can know what the war will demand, and it isn't going to end soon. Sooner or later you may ask me something and I may have to say, "Sorry, I'm not allowed to talk about that."'

'I understand that completely. I told you on Tuesday, I can bear that. What I can't bear is being lied to again – not by you. So from now on, tell me whatever you can tell me, and for the rest, please simply tell me that you can't tell me.' Sam stops to draw breath and then says, 'I didn't put that very well, did I?'

'You put it brilliantly,' Andrew replies.

'Thank you.'

'All right, then, I promise,' he goes on. 'No lies, ever.' He is about to say something more but is interrupted by the sound of three aeroplanes passing by overhead, east to west, at low altitude. Sam jumps slightly and they both look upwards.

'Those are ours,' Andrew reassures her. 'Not Spits, though – Hurricanes.'

He waits for the quiet to return.

'Sam, may I kiss you?'

'I wish you would!'

He draws even closer to her and begins to kiss her right cheek, but Sam is having none of this and turns her head to face him so that her lips are on his. He kisses her and feels her kiss him in return.

It is the same as it was, only more so now. It feels as if they are falling into each other.

The kiss ends, and then another, more urgent this time. They are both breathless now but when Andrew takes half a step back Sam gasps, 'No, please don't stop!' before she has time to recall that she wasn't brought up to behave or speak in this way.

And so there is a third kiss that begins at Sam's left temple and works its way across her cheek and to her mouth. That ends, and, at great length, so does a fourth.

It feels as if the world around them is falling away.

They stand clasped in each other's arms, Sam leaning her head on Andrew's shoulder, feeling the rhythm of his breathing and listening to the sound of his heart.

The Wolseley's bonnet is still raised; it shields them from the most of the yard. By the time they hear the sound of footsteps crunching across the gravel they have only a split second to spring apart from one another.

'Miss Stewart,' Brooke begins, and then stops abruptly, seeing both of them with their caps askew and Sam's hair slightly disarranged. He looks startled, then puzzled, and finally sly.

Sam picks up the blanket again.

'We're nearly out of tincture of iodine, Brookie, and I don't know what we ought to do about this,' she announces, sounding only slightly breathless. 'We're meant to have two blankets in the car, but the moths have been using this one as a canteen. Of course it's hard to replace anything nowadays. I'm worried, though, that it'll reflect badly on the police force if this is the sort of thing we offer when a blanket is needed.'

'Tell you what,' Brooke replies, 'why don't you put that back in there for now and I'll see what I can do. Tincture of iodine?'

'Yes, for the first aid kit.'

'Right-o. I'll look into that. Oh, Miss Stewart,' he goes on, as if remembering suddenly why he is here, 'Mr Foyle wants to talk to you.'

'I don't know why this was sent to me – the letter itself is addressed to you.' Mr Foyle hands Sam an envelope.

'Thank you, sir.'

'Aren't you going to read it, Sam?'

'I will, sir.' She has barely glanced at it before putting it into one of her pockets. 'Sir, you asked me earlier if I have any regrets about being posted to Hastings. I'd like to say again that I don't, I have none at all, and I've never once thought about asking to be transferred somewhere else, or resigning from the MTC.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'Even the... difficult things that have happened while I've been here have been – well, I've survived them, and I'm better than I was for having gone through them. Andrew is here, sir,' Sam goes on, before Mr Foyle has time to reply.

'Really. Still?'

'He's in the passage. Just outside.'

'Ask him to come in here, would you?'

'Whatever you say, sir.'

Sam opens the door to Mr Foyle's office a bit wider and motions for Andrew to come in.

'Have you really got nothing better to do this morning than to stand about here distracting my staff, Andrew?' his father asks.

Andrew stands next to Sam, his hand on her shoulder.