Tuesday February 9 1943

Didn't have chance to have Proper Talk with J last night what with Uncle A hovering and driving A to airfield, she was gone when I got back. And letter not really satisfactory as one must assume everything read these days and expect most DEFINITELY at HH. Shall have to think of something clever and if can't, ask Mr F.

A in foul mood on drive back tho' bucked up when I pointed it out. Dad being Dad he said and talked about poetry the rest of the way.

Still don't understand about nettles. Suspect don't have poetry-type brain. Do definitely have police-type brain tho' which is much better brain to have. Solved the case on first day after all except for few tiny details.

There ARE women in the Force, I've read about them. Not lots but Mr F would give me an excellent reference am sure. After war of course.

Must ask M about what training involves. Am sure could get head-start by putting all the waiting for Mr F to good use by memorising regulations etc.

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek and watched the landscape slide past the windows as Sam drove them back toward Hastings. She was chattering brightly about the meal last night and how jolly nice it had been of Jen to bring so much food and - after a side excursion into the glories of onions - how she could have been knocked over by a feather to see Andrew although he clearly wasn't much cop at fishing and - after a further side excursion covering the very tastiest types of fish - did he think it would be very hard to learn to set rabbit snares?

"I believe knowing where the rabbits are likely to be is the difficult part," Foyle said.

"Like fish, sir?" she asked. "Not that rabbits are like fish, of course, but in the knowing where they are part."

"Mmhmm," Foyle said. He took off his hat and studied the brim. He'd assumed, the night before, that Sam would take the opportunity of the drive back to the airfield to break the news to Andrew of his impending fatherhood, but her casually cheerful mention of his visit made him suspect she hadn't. Whether Andrew had responded as the man his father hoped he was or the boy he suspected his son might still be, the Samantha Stewart of Foyle's experience could not have concealed her reaction either way.

There was time, of course, but not a great deal of it. A child born seven months after marriage might be passed off as an early birth in a general agreement by friends and neighbours to accept the story; at five months or less, however, there would be far less willingness to turn a blind eye.

Damn it, he thought, and put his hat back on. "Sam."

"Yes, sir?"

"Look, not my business, obviously, but I just wanted you to know …" Foyle searched for the right words. "About your situation."

"My situation, sir?" she asked.

"I know, Sam," Foyle said.

"Know what, sir?" she asked in puzzlement.

He turned to look at her, saying again: "I know."

Sam gave him a baffled glance. "So you said."

He sighed. "I know about your … about your ration book."

"My ration book?" she echoed.

"Yes."

"Um," Sam said. "What about my ration book, sir?"

Foyle winced, and frowned out the window. "I saw it."

"You saw my ration book." She paused. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't quite follow."

Foyle closed his eyes. No help for it. He said rapidly: "Sam, I know you're in the family way."

There was a small, intense silence.

Then Sam stood hard on the brakes and brought the car to a sudden halt in the middle of the lane. She turned to stare at him, eyes wide, opened her mouth, and closed it again.

"I …" Foyle glanced at her, looked away, settled his hat more firmly on his head. "Look, Sam, you don't need to talk to me, it isn't my business, but I couldn't help noticing, your ration book, and so on."

"Whu?" Sam said.

"It's a distinctive color," Foyle pointed out. "And I don't know - really none of my concern, I know, but I do - whatever happens, Sam, you can rely on me."

She made another indistinct noise, and then swallowed hard, and said blankly: "Gosh, sir."

"I should have - I didn't want you to think you had to … keep it from me," Foyle said, and hastily added, "unless you wanted to."

Behind them, a lorry honked. Sam seemed oblivious. "Uh," she said. "Right."

"We should, ah …" Foyle said. "Move over?"

She started, and hastily threw the car back into gear, stamped on the accelerator, and swerved to the verge. The lorry passed them with a final blast of the horn.

"If you need …" Foyle said. "If I can help. The pram, for example."

"The pram," she repeated numbly.

"I saw you'd been looking at it," he said diffidently. "In the classifieds."

"I, um," Sam said. "I suppose I was. And it's awfully nice of you, sir. Awfully decent."

"Don't mention it," Foyle said hastily. "If there's anything else, you just … let me know, all right? I'm sure Andrew will do the right thing, if that's what you want, but I know with prices what they are these days his pay won't go far."

"Andrew," Sam said rather blankly. "I see. That, um. Makes sense. That you'd - for the prospective future Mrs Foyle."

"Andrew is, ah … he's a good man at heart," Foyle said. "This might not be ideal but that doesn't mean …" He stopped. Sam's shoulders were slumped and she looked almost on the verge of tears. "Sam?"

She took a deep breath. "Hypothetically, sir," she said. "If I wasn't - that is, if the prospective future Mrs Foyle didn't happen to me. If Andrew had -nothing to do with anything. If I were - if it was somebody else?"

Foyle frowned. Not Andrew? "Sam. Are you telling me …?" He sorted through possible suspects, considering and rejecting them one after the other. Couldn't possibly be someone at the station without me knowing, that American has been posted out, Tony hasn't been home on leave in a year …

Sam sighed, and closed her eyes. "It's understandable, sir, that you'd - obviously feel rather differently. Of course."

"We-ell," Foyle said, chewing his lip, "I suspect a stern fatherly talk would have less effect on someone else." He paused. "But I'll have a try, if you'd like. And you can rely on me, Sam. Whatever … I'll help you in any way I can. In any way you want. If you want."

She turned to look at him. "Really, sir? I mean, really? Even if Andrew and I - even if it were nothing to do with Andrew."

"Even if it were nothing to do with Andrew," he assured her. "Sam. You can rely on me. Whatever the circumstances of your … circumstances." He touched her shoulder. "If there's anything. Just let me know."

"Thank you, sir," Sam said, with a slightly watery smile. "There, ah. Won't be."

Foyle tugged at his hat brim. "Well, if there is."

"No, sir," she said, and he realized she was blushing furiously. "There won't be. I'm not, sir."

"Not?" Foyle asked.

"Not PWP, sir."

"Ah. I'm -" sorry was on his lips, but that would be insensitive. For an unmarried girl, losing a pregnancy might well be a relief rather than a cause for grief. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly," she said, blushing harder. "I mean, I never was. It wasn't my book, sir. I've been picking up Mrs Wilson's rations for her, she's having a difficult time of it and the doctor's put her on bed rest. Mrs Henderson was going to do her shopping but since I've got the car, that is, since you very kindly let me drive home sometimes, I said I would."

"Oh," Foyle said.

"It's all properly authorised," she hastened to assure him.

"I, ah .. I see." He was relieved for her, and, he realized suddenly, unaccountably saddened, at the same time. "I, ah … well I'm very sorry, Sam, to have … that is, totally unwarranted conclusions."

"Not at all, sir," she assured him with what Foyle thought was unreasonably generous forgiveness, still pink. "Understandable mistake. It does explain a few things, though. Gosh, I'm almost glad. I was frightfully worried you were gearing up to agree with my father that the best place for me was Lyminster."

"Well, I …" He hesitated, settled on: "Was concerned."

"Yes, I gather." Sam stopped, turned to him, eyes wide. "Oh, golly, sir," she said, horrified, "you didn't say anything to Andrew, did you?"

"No, no, not at all." He took off his hat and studied the inside of it. Nup, no justification there. "No-ot … specifically."

"Not specif - so that's what he meant!" Sam said. "I say, sir, he was rather peeved with you."

"Yes, I can imagine he was. I, ah. Miss Marcus - Jen. Might be under the impression." Foyle put his hat back on. "Made rather a hash of things, haven't I?"

"Oh," Sam said, and then, with a look of enlightenment: "Oh. That explains it." She closed her eyes. "Oh, plurry heck. Please tell me you didn't say anything to Daddy."

"No, no," he assured her hastily.

"Well that's something," Sam said. "So it's just Jenny who thinks I'm in the club."

"Really am terribly sorry," Foyle said again.

She turned to look at him again. "It is just Jenny, isn't it? You haven't been - organizing a whip-round at the station for my layette or anything?"

"Good god, no," Foyle said, appalled.

"Then you'll just have to tell Jenny you were wrong," she said firmly. "As soon as possible, please."

"I'll telephone as soon as we get to the station," Foyle promised hastily. He chewed his lip. "It was unforgivable of me to … make that kind of assumption about your private life, Sam."

"Well I suppose I wouldn't have been the first girl in Hastings to lose her judgement over a man in uniform," she said. Foyle winced, but Sam was starting the car again and didn't see. "You really ought to have said something," she said sternly.

"I … wanted to give you the chance to tell me … in your own time," Foyle said.

"You were very decent about it," Sam said generously. "If I were, not that I would be, but I'm rather glad to know that you, well." She paused, and added, "I do promise I'll tell you if I get into those sort of difficulties, sir, but you must promise me not to make me stay with the car all the time just because you think I might be."

"I do promise," Foyle said.

"Good." She took the next corner neatly, if a little too fast for Foyle's comfort. "Because I shall need all the experience I can get."

He turned to look at her again. "And why is that?"

"I've decided to join the police, sir," Sam said, adding quickly: "After the war, of course."

"Oh have you," Foyle said. "And what will your father say?"

"He'll be livid," Sam said. "But I shall cross that bridge when I come to it. After all, the war might go on for years yet. Anything could happen."

"You might change your mind, f'instance," Foyle said dryly.

"I might get a bomb dropped on me too, sir, and frankly, that seems rather more likely." She drove in silence a moment. "I thought you'd be more, um. Pleased."

Foyle frowned. "It wouldn't be easy, Sam. There aren't very many women police officers in the whole country."

"Yes, sir, I know," she said. "No reason I couldn't be one of them, though, is it? I mean, there aren't very many Detective Chief Superintendents in the whole country but you're one of them."

"We-ell. You wouldn't be able to marry, you know."

"Yes, sir, I do realize. But that doesn't look terribly likely anyway, does it?"

"And unless things change very quickly I doubt you'd ever be allowed to be a detective." He studied her. "Which might not be a bad thing, unless you get rather better at not showing every single thought that crosses your mind."

"Yes, sir," she said, chastened.

"But I do think you'd make a very good woman constable, if not a detective, not just yet."

She beamed. "Really, sir?"

"Oh, yes. You're bright, you think on your feet, you keep your head in a crisis," Foyle said. "You have good instincts. You knew Axel Brink had killed himself from the first day."

"I say, sir, I did, didn't I?" Sam said, pleased. "That was jolly clever of me, wasn't it!"

"You did very well the whole way through," Foyle said. "You should be proud of yourself."

"You should be proud of me, sir. I mean - " She blushed a bit. "I mean, if I've done anything to be proud of, it's because of what I've learned from you, and Mr Milner."

"Oh, I am," Foyle said. Ahead of them, the outskirts of Hastings appeared in the distance. "As proud," he added dryly, "as if you were about to make me a grandfather."

"Sir!" Sam protested. "I told you I'm not-" She shot him an outraged glance, and then closed her mouth with a snap. "You're teasing me again, sir."

"Mi-ight be," Foyle conceded.

"You think I can't tell, sir, but I always can," she said loftily. "I'm-"

"Very perceptive," Foyle finished. Rather more perceptive, he thought wryly, than I've been on certain subjects this week. "Why you'll do well, on the Force."

She was silent a while, navigating the streets, until she stopped the car outside the station. "Did you mean that, sir?"

Foyle paused with his hand on the handle of the door. "That you'd do well on the Force?" he asked. "Absolutely. If it's what you decide you want."

"No, sir," Sam said, coloring a little. "Did you mean it when you said you were proud of me?"

"Mmm," Foyle said. "Well, the truth is …" He opened the door and got out, then turned back. Sam was sitting very straight, hands on the wheel, but her face was a study of wordless appeal.

Foyle settled his hat on his head, and leaned down. "Truth is, I … couldn't be prouder. Now come on, time to see what the criminal classes of Hastings have been up to in our absence."

Her face lit up. "Yes, sir!" she said, scrambling out of the car as he started up the steps.

She caught up with him as he opened the door.

They entered the station together.

.

.

.

~fin~

A/N :

The difference between a seven-month post-marriage baby and a five-month one is based on my grandmother's remarks one Christmas (after a few too many sherries) about her own panicked rush down the aisle. Even knowing that her severe morning-sickness would likely abate by her second trimester, she was determined to get wed before her third month. This enlightened me as to the truth behind the family story of Grandma vomiting into her bouquet right before 'I do'.

There were a few hundred female police officers in England at the time, almost all in London, and over the previous decades many of the restrictions on their activities and powers had been lifted (it may seem bizarre, but female police officers were not allowed to made arrests until 1923 or take fingerprints until 1937). Although women police officers had been required to resign on marriage before the war, the bar was lifted and married women allowed to rejoin during the war years. This was considered a temporary measure, hence Foyle's comment to Sam, but was made permanent in 1946.

The first "Woman Detective Constable" was not appointed until 1973.

Thank you to everyone who has read this far. If you've left a review, I thank you - it's the only payment we fanfic writers get. And if you haven't already, please consider leaving a review!

The next story in this series, "The Frost of the Stars", featuring Amelia Winston (named by Utopia) as well as Wolseley's and Jewell's named characters (do send me those names!), will be coming soon, along with a shorter story "Things Ain't What They Used To Be" featuring Milicent Lovell (named by Anne BronteRocks).