Chapter 9

As Foyle walked back towards the old car, Walters' words turning over in his mind, his chest suddenly tightened – and it had nothing at all to do with illness. On an old wooden bench, bleached grey by the sun and wind, Sam sat. Her eyes were red, her cheeks raw, and her arms were crossed tightly across her still-slim body. Andrew was perched beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his head lowered to hear her words before the ever strengthening wind carried them away, forever unheeded. Beside her, a gnarled branch swayed, periodically flicking the top of the bench seat behind her. Neither she nor Andrew paid it any attention.

Foyle quickened his pace, the thump of his heart urging him on. When he was still a few paces off, he called softly.

"Sam?"

The single word seemed, for a moment, to swirl in front of him, the wind trapping it. His eyes focused on her face.

Andrew lifted his head and glared at his father while he gently stroked Sam's shoulder.

"What's wrong? Are you ill? What's happened?" Foyle asked in quick succession, the questions firing out of his mouth. He put a hand on the old tree, steadying himself while he waited for an answer, any answer.

"Oh you must be kidding!" Andrew blurted, his eyes not leaving Sam's face. He put his hand around Sam's back and pulled her in closer. "She's not ill, Dad. Sam's utterly browned off with you." A moment passed before he looked at his father and added, his voice softer. "We both are, actually."

Sam's eyes suddenly filled with tears. In the absence of a handkerchief, the heel of her right hand pushed against the flood but it made for a very poor substitute.

"Oh" Foyle mumbled, bewildered. He took a couple of small steps, closing the gap between himself and his former driver. "You are?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a clean white handkerchief. He held it out by the corner, almost like an offering. Andrew snatched it up, shook it out and placed the end into Sam's hand.

"What um ...?" Foyle asked, still stunned. His voice was small. "You might need to ...uh"

"Dad, you treated Sam like a child." Andrew rolled his eyes and gave Sam's shoulder another rub with his fingers. "You cut her off mid-sentence. You dismissed her like, … like she didn't matter."

"Ahhhh." The air escaped from Foyle's lungs, leaving him deflated.

Foyle crouched down in front of her, one elbow resting on a bent knee. With his left hand he reached out to touch her wrist but hesitated. The action halted and, after a few seconds, he gripped the arm rest of the old bench seat instead.

"Sam," he began, and cleared his throat. "You must realise that I never intended for you to …. I wasn't dismissing you, and I certainly don't see you as a child. Far from it. In fact I was defending you."

"Defending?!" Andrew chirped. He slid himself forward, the seat of his trousers scraping audibly against the weather-roughened timber. "Odd way of -"

A thunderous look from Foyle made him stop.

After a short pause, Foyle continued.

"The man showed you disrespect Sam. I won't stand by and let that happen. It certainly wasn't okay."

"Is that not my decision?" she asked through her tears.

Foyle frowned. This time he threw all selfish hesitation away. He reached out and gripped both of her hands, gently resting his knuckles on her knees.

"Sam," he said, a gentleness to his words. "You are a married woman now. A mother. You can't ..."

Sam flew off the seat, pulling her hands away from his gentle grip. Her leg brushed against his shoulder, causing him to pivot on his toes to avoid falling.

A noise like a wounded animal erupted from her throat and she ran to the old tree, her back to them both. With one arm wrapped around the trunk, the jagged edges of the bark pulling on her sleeve, she crumpled. Like a broken piano accordion, her body collapsed in on itself.

Instantly Foyle sprang to life, sprinting to be beside her. He reached out and gripped her loose arm, pulling her up to stand. The forward momentum, the spinning motion, propelled her into his chest.

"Oompff."

Suddenly tears ran down her face and she buried her forehead into his shoulder.

"You don't think I KNOW how much my life has CHANGED?" she shouted, balling her hands into fists. "I spend my life changing nappies, washing clothes, mopping floors and, if I'm lucky, I get a few hours of sleep and then I have to do it ALL OVER AGAIN!" She banged her tight fists against his chest, beating out a rhythm to accentuate her words.

Slowly, wordlessly, Foyle placed his hands on her back and drew her in.

"My life," she continued, her words muffled against his coat lapel, "is no longer my own." She paused for a moment, drawing in a breath through her sobs. "And being here again, with you, has made it abundantly clear that I MISS my old life. I miss it terribly. I miss driving through the country-side, helping you solve murders, I miss the adventure, I miss being USEFUL."

Foyle nodded, his cheek brushing against her ear but he said nothing.

"I am tired" she confessed, albeit meekly. "So very tired and now ….. now…."

Her tirade stopped, an eerie silence filled the space and Andrew cautiously approached from the side. His eyes wide, he caught his father's attention.

Foyle asked "is there a flask of water in the car?"

Andrew shrugged his shoulders, lost for words. Foyle flicked his head in the direction of the car and Andrew, pursing his lips together in concern, nodded vigorously before heading back towards the road.

" ….and now" Sam said, lifting her head. "Now there's going to be no doubt at all that my old life is a thing of the past." She placed a hand on her middle and rubbed in gentle circles. "I'm expecting."

"Ahhh" Foyle replied, the inadequacy of his words obvious, even to him. He slid his hands down over her shoulders and waited, adamant that he would not be the one to silence her.

"Ten weeks."

"Sam," Foyle finally uttered, mindful of the volume of his words. "I didn't know …. that you were struggling, ….. I, um …." He hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face. "Why didn't you tell me you needed help?"

Sam exhaled, the breath coming with a sigh.

"Not ONE of your letters," he explained, with at least a portion of his exasperation sneaking out between his words, "said anything."

"You were ill" she replied and broke away from his grip. She strolled back to the bench and leaned casually against the arm rest. The one dry corner of the handkerchief did an admirable job of drying her eyes.

"Telephone?" he asked, the single word carrying more than its share of frustration.

Her face, the raw emotion on it, appealed for his understanding.

"What does, uh, Danny say?" he finally asked, coming to sit beside her. The timber creaked.

"I haven't told him yet."

Foyle rocked his head from side to side. "Think you should?"

Before she could answer, though, Andrew came back, his hands full.

"I forgot about these" he finally said, smiling at Sam. He placed the flask of water down on the bench beside his father and opened the biscuit tin.

"Ooooh" Sam replied, her eyes wide. She plucked one biscuit out and brought it up to her mouth.

Twisting the lid off the flask, Foyle said "you can have mine too."

He poured some water into the up-turned lid, carefully holding it between thumb and forefinger.

"Here you are."

"Thank you" Sam replied, accepting the make-shift cup and he knew, at once, that she wasn't just talking about the water.