What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery
"Khyber Love" and its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabitha Wire Alipphi, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story.
Chapter 1 – Cloisonne
All I wanted was to sleep in my own bed, in my own home, with Louisa. But the North Cornwall Water Company deprived me of this simple pleasure. Since my refusal to enrich the employee Christmas fund by bribing Tom Giddins, the company's august manager, he made my life as miserable as the bacteria-laden dogs of Portwenn. Now Giddins had struck again by ruling that the water lines to our newly-refurbished home were corrupted by Leptospiriosis, at best, or Escherichia Coli-0157-H7, at worst. Weeks, perhaps a month, would be needed to replace the lines and ensure that the wash-off from cow manure had not contaminated our water supply.
After only three months in what Louisa continued to call our newlywed nest, we were forced from the expansive stone house back to the sparse confines of Fern Cottage. Gone were the newly-glazed windows, kitchen with 5 hob cooker, functioning dishwasher, and en suite bathroom. The stout surgery suited me well in my bachelor days, but it was simply not equipped for a family of three. Especially when one member had a penchant for messiness, no matter the effort I expended to change her.
So it was this Saturday afternoon, my surgery closed for nearly an hour, that I was ordering the disarray left by a scattered head teacher and a toddler who favoured his mother in matters of tidiness. Louisa and James would return soon with the week's shopping, and I had to work quickly. No spot remained in the cottage to rob space. Every nook was filled.
As I was retrieving books and papers from the floor, a shadow crossed my kitchen window. No, they can't be home yet. I've only just begun! A light tap at the door was followed by the distinctive voice of my Aunt Ruth, "Martin, are you there then?" I would make short shrift of Ruth, although she rarely looked in for a bothersome chat as her sister, Joan Norton, had done.
"What is it Aunt Ruth? I'm quite busy."
"Yes, I can see that. I've only stopped to ask if you might have a quick look at the Merc's tyres. I'm off to Bodmin Parkway to fetch a friend and they feel a bit wobbly."
This was the very sort of excuse Aunt Joan might have used, and it annoyed me that Ruth was drifting in that direction. Yet I dutifully followed her slight figure to the ancient Mercedes. Of course, the tyre treads and the car, itself, were ready for the journey. "There was no need to come here, Aunt Ruth. The tyres are fine."
"Thank you ever so, Martin. It's only with Al off on his honeymoon, I've felt a bit unsure about all things mechanical."
"I thought they were back. Wasn't he to bring in the early veg crop? "
"Yes, but Pauline was having such a splendid time in Las Vegas that they've stayed another few days. They're due back on Tuesday."
Why a gambling addict thought it a good idea to be married in Las Vegas by an Elvis Presley impersonator was beyond me. When I voiced this opinion at the dinner Aunt Ruth hosted for the engaged couple, Louisa had shushed me, as did Bert Large and Dawn Lamb. My next question to Ruth was: "Who are you fetching from the train?"
"Oh, Martin, I've mentioned her several times. Phoebe Nielsen. Dr. Nielsen, my colleague from Broadmoor. She gave up the ghost about the same time I did. When they closed the Paddock Centre and transferred the grave and immediate danger patients to Rampton, she retired. Can't say that I blame her. Without those doolallies, the place would be dull as Jung. Now the escape sirens will only be heard during the Monday testing. Pity, really. Well, must be off."
My curiosity was piqued. Ruth never talked about her career treating the criminally insane, although she was supposedly writing a book about her experiences. I wondered aloud if her old colleague might help with the book she'd eagerly put aside for a chess game with Al Large.
"No, she's not to help with my book," Ruth sniffed, an edge to her voice. "Although she is a writer of sorts. Since her retirement, she's taken to writing Fan Fiction for the TV show "Khyber Love." Louisa told me you watch the show with her and quite enjoy it."
Certainly, I would rub Louisa's feet as she watched a bit of TV drivel each night. But I had no idea what Ruth was talking about. I had never heard of anything called "Fan Fiction" or the equally uninteresting "Khyber Love." Ruth was not to know this. "Yes, of course," I managed. "Well my best to – um – your friend."
"You do know that Louisa has asked us to supper tonight, Martin? Phoebe's train arrives at four, and we should be back here well before six. If you're not to feed us, we'll have a bite in Bodmin before going to the farm."
Bugger all. Louisa had said something about dinner, but I had been so distracted by my most-recent exchange with that imbecile Giddins that it slipped my mind.
"Right then. Yes, supper at six. Looking forward to it," I lied. What I was looking forward to was a few hours of peace with Louisa and James in an orderly house.
"Well, if you're certain, Martin, I'll bring Phoebe from the station. She's a brilliant psychiatrist and you'll enjoy chatting with her. Louisa has read her Fan Fiction stories and is very anxious to discuss "Khyber Love." I believe Morwenna and Maureen Fenn are invited as well."
"Oh, God," I groaned, no longer able to contain myself.
Ruth stood on tiptoe and softly pecked my cheek before slyly whispering: "What you did for love" and entering the Merc.
Several hours later, James Henry had been fed, I had read two bedtime stories to him and could no longer prolong his drift into sleep. There was nothing to be done but make my way to the lounge and bid the five cackling women good night. I could then escape to our bedroom with the hope that Louisa would soon show them the door.
"Oh, good, Martin's returned." Louisa's expression bore the hope that I would somehow fit in, be one of them. "Has James nodded off then?" she sweetly inquired.
"Yes, and I'm afraid I must join him. Long day, busy surgery. Possibly some emergencies tonight. Must have some rest, journal articles to read. Good night then."
"Rubbish, Martin," scolded Aunt Ruth, a glass of red wine held precariously in her left hand. "We are having a fascinating talk with Phoebe, and Louisa said you always watch 'Khyber Love' with her." Again, that pleading look from Louisa: Stay, be part of it, play your role as my husband. Please stay.
Defenceless, I reluctantly perched on a straight-back chair and glanced quickly at Louisa. She rewarded me with a smile, her eyes communicating pleasure with my decision. I could suffer through a few minutes, actually more than that, for her.
I cleared my throat and tried to look enthusiastic as I gamely requested: "Please continue, Dr. Nielsen."
"Oh do call me Phoebe. I've left that old doctor life behind and quite like this new one."
I nodded at the smartly-dressed woman who had artfully nestled her tall frame into a corner of the leather Chesterfield. She must be near Aunt Ruth's age, but somehow seemed younger, more vital. Although her left eye was a bit milky, perhaps from a cataract, and her hair had far more gray strands than blonde. It was twisted into a loose effort, held by a cloisonné hair comb, similar to one I gave my mother as a child. I was perturbed to see that she and the other women had removed their shoes, likely made comfortable by the several bottles of wine they had consumed.
"Tell us about your convention then, Phoebe," Maureen spoke up.
"Of course, my dear. You know that this is to be the last season of 'Khyber Love,'"she intoned solemnly. Moans and a few "oh please, say no" greeted this declaration. "The wedding and honeymoon are to be filmed around Portwenn starting next week and will continue until summer term ends."
This caught my attention. "What filming is that," I demanded.
"Oh, Doc, you know," Morwenna sounded a bit exasperated. "The council lady had the meeting at Village Hall Monday a week. Filming's to be done between Camelford and Portwenn . Notices are posted all about the village. You've seen them. Pink with the arrows."
Like most things in the village, I had ignored the signs and only vaguely recalled this threatened invasion. It would do nothing more than muddle the villagers and cause me to treat more than my usual share of irritating tourists. No good could come of this. Realising it would affect my practise, I listened intently as Phoebe resumed speaking.
"As we all know, Nigel Lockhart is leaving 'Khyber Love' to become the new Dr. Who. He is simply scrumptious and a fit successor to Matt Smith. But not to David Tennant, in my opinion."
"I can't wait," Louisa squealed. Louisa, my intelligent, clever Louisa, squealing over a television actor! She cast an apologetic look in my direction, making me all-the-more eager to hear about this Nigel Lockhart.
"For the last five years," Phoebe explained, "Nigel has taken the role of Simon Siddiqi, the son of an Afghan warlord and a British baroness who met at Cambridge in the 1960s. Simon is a freelance news correspondent, based first in Iraq and now in Afghanistan. Although it has been variously hinted that he works for MI6, the Russian FIS, American CIA or even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He's quite the scoundrel!"
Murmurs of agreement were emitted by her audience as Phoebe continued:
"Simon is absolutely fantastic," more murmurs of agreement, even from Aunt Ruth. "But," Phoebe paused dramatically, "he cannot decide between the two women in his life. Fenella Quirk is an extraordinary young woman from the Isle of Man who works for Oxfam in Afghanistan. Gender issues and the like. Her rival for Simon's love is Jennifer Mitchell, a hard-nosed American aid worker who first met Simon in Baghdad and followed him to Afghanistan. Fenella was not pleased."
Nor did it seem was Maureen Fenn, who reacted in an unusually-emphatic manner: "I just hate that Jennifer Mitchell!" Fenella deserves Simon, just like I deserved my Roger."
"Oh, no," Morwenna rejoined. "Fenella is a cow. Has all that ginger hair, always twitching it about. She'll never make Simon happy. Jennifer is Simon's true love, don't you think Doc?"
"Uhm, well, uhm," now I was directing the pleading look to Louisa, who came to my rescue. "There's a good deal more to consider, Martin. Phoebe, please go on."
"Right, then. With the show ending, Simon must choose either Fenella or Jennifer as his wife. If not, the women of Britain and half the world will lay siege to the BBC. We know the first episodes of the show will lead up to the wedding and honeymoon, but we haven't a hint as to which woman Simon will marry. Everything is hush, hush, of course, but my fellow Fan Fiction writers have been churning out stories speculating on the ending. That's why we're gathering here in Cornwall to learn what we may about the final episodes. Of course, it's meant to be a convention for 'Khyber Love' fans and writers, but it seems we'll be chasing the actors and crew about the countryside. It'll be like riding to the hounds, won't it Ruth?"
"Or worse," my aunt noted with her wry smile.
"Well then," Ruth offered, "the lines are drawn between those like Maureen who want Simon to marry Fenella," here Maureen nodded her head vigorously, "and those like Morwenna who want Simon to marry Jennifer." Morwenna pranced about in some sort of dance, whooping, actually whooping, in my home!
"What about you, Phoebe," Louisa entered the fray. "Do you want Simon to marry Jennifer or Fenella?"
Smiling in a most enigmatic manner, Phoebe replied: "I have not made my choice known. Nor have I written any speculative stories. I remain neutral. The Switzerland of 'Khyber Love' Fan Fiction, if you like. It's made me terribly unpopular with my loyal readers and other writers, but I want to watch the filming to suss out clues. Body language is a psychiatrist's forte. Even when someone is acting, they emit information. I'll wait and see."
"What of the other writers," Louisa asked. "Aren't they nearly divided between the two?"
"It would seem so. The principal writers in Fenella's camp are 'Pashtu Penny,' 'Dari David,' and 'Urdu Ursula.' They've taken their pen names from the languages spoken in Afghanistan: Pashtu, Dari and Urdu," Phoebe pointed out.
"Because Jennifer operates schools for Afghan girls, the writers who favour her are 'Charlie Chalk,' 'Bettina Book' and 'Tessa Tutor.' Obviously, words associated with the teaching profession."
"Louisa is a teacher, head teacher at Portwenn Primary," I volunteered to Phoebe, hoping that my new wife would approve of my conversational efforts.
"But she didn't marry Simon Siddiqi now, did she," Morwenna grinned. "She married good old Doc Martin."
"And I'm very happy that I did! Martin is a wonderful husband," Louisa was quick to defend me.
"Yes, he would have to be," Phoebe looked indulgently at me, "putting up with this lot tonight. Not to say what we are about to inflict on your village, Dr. Ellingham."
I grimaced a bit but did manage one more piece of conversation, "What then is your pen name, Dr. Nielsen?"
"I'm called "Fan Fic Phoebe. A bit silly, but a bit memorable, wouldn't you say?"
Little did I know that Fan Fic Phoebe would figure in one of the most memorable medical cases of my career. You might say I didn't have a clue!
Continued. . . .
