A/N: Thank you to those who have stuck with this story - your kind words are much appreciated.

As always, no copyright infringement intended.

Chapter 21

May 1945

While Sam spoke, Andrew had been smoking one cigarette after the other in a maddening fashion. When she finished her story Andrew sat back, looking very pale. Through the haze of smoke she saw him fiddling with his lighter. After drinking the teapot dry, going over the details of her marriage to Foyle, their short time away on the Bright's farm, brief mention of the arrival of Andrew's letter, the loss of the baby, and a passing mention to the job at Beverly Lodge which had seen her into 1944, Sam felt tired.

Finally Andrew said, "Shall we go for a walk — I mean, can you…" he waved vaguely at her protruding middle.

"I'm expecting, Andrew, not lame, now come on."

A bit of fresh air was just what they needed. She thought he was looking a bit drained, and the shadows in his now lean face did nothing to help the image. He somehow looked so much older than when she had known him. True, it had been years, but this wearied hardness etched on his features was from far more than the passage of time. War has changed us all, I suppose, she thought as they left the inn.

Leaving the car outside on the gravel, they walked slowly down along the beach. Sam slipped an arm through his to steady herself.

"I'm sorry to hear about the…well, that you, er, lost the, er…" he looked at her helplessly, wholly at sea in this unchartered female territory.

"Thank you, Andrew." Sam patted her middle, "Third time's the charm."

"Third?" He cringed. "Oh Sam, I'm so sorry."

She frowned and looked out at the beach before them. Composing her face she said quietly, "It was just after we returned to the Police." He put a hand on hers that gripped his elbow tightly.

"These things happen, Andrew," she said bravely. "I had your father to look after me, thankfully. I sometimes think that perhaps God was showing us that it was not the right time. Now, he or she can come into a more peaceful world."

"It must have been hard on you both." Andrew squeezed her hand. After a moment he added, "Was he hammering away and rebuilding things?"

Sam had to smile, "How did you guess?"

"When Mum died, he built a new garden shed, planted the hedgerows, repainted the entire upstairs, and then some."

"Oh dear…"

"Yes, well…" Andrew cleared his throat. "At least your baby will grow up in a world without war."

She squeezed his arm and smiled at him. "If they ever announce it."

"They will."

They walked on silently for a moment and Sam thought about that cliff top walk with Andrew all those years ago. She reminded him of this and he laughed, "We were talking about Dad climbing out of my bedroom window in his best suit."

"How I wish I'd seen that."

"Well, you must ask him sometime, maybe he'll reenact it for you…"

"Silly," she gave him a push. "You recited the most beautiful little poem off the top of your head. Do you remember?"

"I remember you," he smiled softly at her as she looked away self-consciously.

They paused, turning to look in a wide arc at the mouldering huts, the inn, and the crashing waves.

"Do tell me it again, Andrew, I did love it."

He smiled, looking pleased. "Well, actually, I wrote something new recently…just before I left Malta."

"Go on."

He looked at the waves once more, then slowly began.

"It's called All Clear.
They've sounded out the last All Clear
And told us, those who made it here
That very soon we'll hold once more
Those things that we held dear.
Yet nothing's clear to me
I gaze from darkness to a summer haze
And though they part, the clouds of war lead only to uncertain days."

Sam gripped his arm a bit more firmly. "Do you really think that?"

He shrugged.

"It's very sad."

He groaned, "You're right, sorry Sam — need to watch out for myself. I've been coming over too maudlin for words recently."

"Only natural, Andrew. So much has changed for you." She gazed at him, suddenly realising just how lost he must feel. "Will you stay in Hastings with us?"

Her voice was quite sincere, and he smiled. "Must speak to Dad first. Smooth things over."

"I think you'll find them fairly smooth already…"

Andrew gave a small huff of laughter, not quite sure.

"Come on, Andrew," she said, voice slightly pleading now. If only he could forgive himself…

"I remember that letter you wrote me last year…it was jolly decent of you, all things considered."

"Your father was furious initially."

"Oh?"

"Well…I had gone behind his back."

"Glad you did," he said, smiling and giving her a sideways glance. "Anyway, when he wrote sometime later, I began to think…"

"Yes?"

"Well…" Andrew suddenly turned to face at her, "dash it all, Sam, we're not so different, he and I, and suddenly I realised what a prize idiot I'd been. People were losing family left, right and centre — fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, and here I was throwing away…" He swallowed hard, looking away.

"You're both stubborn as anything, I'll give you that."

His face was small and hollow now, emotions choking him slightly. "I want to make things up, I really do. I've not seen him or spoken to him for so long… I'm terrified. What if…"

"Andrew…"

"I feel so responsible for things, now that I've heard your story. I blamed him for everything, you see. All these silly dreams of returning to you were dashed and I was feeling miserable, and I just—"

"Andrew, for goodness sake, we knew why you wrote the ruddy thing. It's no great secret. He didn't reply for so long because he's so damned stubborn too. The pair of you…I'd like to knock your heads together, really I would."

He looked at her sheepishly. "Ah…"

"Andrew, please, we can go over this a hundred times, or we can make our peace and move on. We know why, you know why, and all that matters now is that you're here in one piece."

He nodded slowly, but she could see his worries still ticking away at the back of his mind.

"The only way forward is to get this over with, I think," she said sensibly. "Let's go find your father and have it over and done with. Then you two can fight it out or whatever it is you men do, and we can have some semblance of peace for when they actually announce the end of the war. I'm not having our house turned in to a war zone either, so if you are going to slug it out, you can jolly well go outside."

He gave her a half smile, "Is that how you see us? Great lumbering men?"

"Sometimes, yes. Now, let's get going. What time is it?"

He stretched out his left arm, wristwatch edging past his cuff. "Four o'clock."

"What!? Oh hell."

She began to take hefty strides and Andrew followed, catching her arm. "Do slow down, you'll do yourself an injury. What's the matter?"

"I'm supposed to collect Christopher at quarter past!"

Andrew blinked, unaccustomed to hearing his father's name on her lips.

"Look, we'll ring the station from the inn, get Cooke…what was it…Brooke, to run round for him."

"Good idea."

They were quickly back at the inn and asked the proprietor if they could borrow his telephone.

"I work for the police, you see, sir, and I've forgotten that I was meant to collect my boss."

The proprietor winked at her, "No wonder, with your pilot back safe and sound. I say let your boss wait."

Sam looked over at Andrew in exasperation but he just chuckled behind his hand.

The line was connected and she fairly shouted through the receiver, "Brookie, oh thank goodness."

"Yes, I'm fine…breathless, oh well, I've been racing about, and —" she rolled her eyes as he interrupted.

"Oh do shut up and listen, Brookie dear. I need you to fetch Chris—er, Mr Foyle from the museum right away."

"No, no, nothing like that, I've just been delayed…er…SSAFA work…" She flicked an eye towards Andrew who was still laughing silently. "…he hates to be kept waiting, and I hoped…"

"Yes, at quarter past. Thank you Brookie, you're a darling." She rang off and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do you speak to all the sergeants like that?" Andrew said, raising an amused eyebrow.

She gave him a look. "Right, we better be getting back so we're there in time for when Christopher comes home."

Andrew's face filled with trepidation again, "All right."

They thanked the proprietor and returned to the car. Sam drove them back to Hastings along the coast road, edging past the multitude of people who seemed to be on the streets once they returned to the Old Town.

"They haven't announced it have they?" Sam asked in concern, thinking they might have missed the end of the war after all.

"I shouldn't think so. There would be more going on. We'll put the wireless on later though."

At Steep Lane, Sam parked and led the way up the steps. "Where are your things, Andrew?"

"I left them with a friend. The one I sold my motorbike to."

"We can collect them later."

She turned to look back at him from the hall, noticing his hesitancy. "Come in, Andrew."

"I suppose my old room has been turned out and done up in yellow for the baby."

He took off his hat and placed it on the stand, running a hand through his hair. Sam smiled at him, the movement reminding her of his father. She placed a hand on his arm, looking at him softly.

"It's just as you left it, ready for when you came home."

A visible lump formed in his throat and he nodded at her, eyes suddenly bright.

"Only Uncle Aubrey did use it when he came to stay last year."

Andrew cleared his throat, following her into the lounge. "I've not met him."

"You'd like him I think. He is a real brick. We are very grateful to him, actually."

He looked at her curiously.

"I'll tell you about him in a minute," she said noticing his look. "First thing's first, sit down and relax."

She moved about the lounge easily, moving things. He followed her with his eyes, obviously finding it strange to see her so at home there. She noticed his gaze and grinned at him.

"You're home, Andrew. Do sit down. It will be all right, you'll see."

He nodded and obeyed, sitting down in his old chair by the hearth. Digging around in his pocket he pulled out his cigarette case.

"I'd give you a drink but I rather think it best you face him without it."

"Really? I'm gasping for a whiskey."

"You've already had one."

He looked up sharply, saying wryly, "Oh I see — he has been teaching you police methods after all."

"Willing pupil," she said briskly. "Now, I'll put a kettle on. You stay there."

She slipped away to the kitchen, slightly anxious herself, wondering what Foyle's reaction would be.

Andrew called over his shoulder, "You said you would tell me about Uncle Aubrey?"...