A Weekend in London
I met Isabelle Grayson and Holly Goodwin on my first day at Goldsmiths' College of the University of London. We were standing in a long queue, grouped alphabetically, trying to sort out where we would live for the term. The dismal lodgings at Goldsmiths' were quite expensive for what they offered. Holly told us of a three room flat on Graham Terrace being let by a graduate student and asked if we would like to see it.
Isabelle and I stepped out of queue and followed Holly to a rather bleak third floor flat with a rusty kitchen sink, dubious cooker and questionable hot water in the lavatory. What the property lacked in condition was offset by its high ceilings and large windows overlooking a park. We signed a lease immediately and then looked at each other hoping for the best. Our friend Mark Cordell would come to refer to us as "the three Gs of GT," and we never had the heart to tell him he wasn't all that clever.
We were three very different people which likely helped us live peacefully for the four years of university. Holly was a bit haughty, musical and had her cap set on marrying a rich man. Failing that, she was studying for a teaching certificate as was I. Isabelle was artistic, flighty and enrolled in the college's renowned art department. My first teacher at Portwenn Primary studied at Goldsmiths' and my dream was to follow in her footsteps, first at university and then into primary school teaching.
With her artistic flair, Isabelle transformed the flat with paint and bits and pieces of furniture, often found on the street or at flea markets. Holly taught us the more important lessons in life: getting about London by tube, applying makeup flawlessly, inserting a tampon, and by her many examples, ditching a boyfriend gracefully. I took on the cooking chores and knew how to stretch our meager food budget. As the more studious one, I often helped Holly and Isabelle with difficult courses, particularly maths.
At the end of our studies, I returned to Portwenn to teach at the primary school, Isabelle left for France to pursue art, and Holly remained in London where she taught at several fancy schools. After a bad marriage ended in Paris, Isabelle returned to Falmouth and managed the local arts council.
Each year Isabelle and I waited in breathless anticipation for Holly's Christmas card gushing about her exciting life with the most exotic vacations, brilliant boyfriends and gifted students. Immediately we were on the phone to each other giggling about our posh pal. We loved her and saw her occasionally, but she had turned into such a toff, we had to laugh about it. However, the year Holly announced she had been appointed head of a new school in London and given partial ownership interest, I was so jealous that I ate an entire packet of chocolate biscuits.
The next fall Holly called me with an invitation to a charity concert she and her chamber music group were giving at Millington Hall, near Wadebridge. During our conversation she dropped that she was dating a radiology consultant at St. Thomas's Hospital. Without thinking of the implications, I told her I was dating Martin Ellingham, a doctor who had been a surgery consultant at St. Thomas's. Of course, characterizing my relationship with Martin as dating was an exaggeration, but for once I wanted to outdo Holly.
When Holly sent two tickets to the concert with a note saying "do bring Martin," I vowed to do just that. I knew that Martin enjoyed classical music, but I was still surprised that he so readily agreed to attend the concert with me. On our drive to Millington Hall, Martin played a CD of Bach cello suites and chatted a bit more than usual. He seemed more relaxed, and there was an anticipatory frisson between us. When he took my hand to help me from his car, he nearly smiled and said I looked very pretty in the new dress Caroline made me buy for the occasion.
Except for a bit of awkwardness with Holly and more than a bit with a friend of his Aunt Joan's, Martin was almost charming that night, particularly when I caught him staring at me in a very admiring manner. At that moment, I thought the evening might lead to romance and was crushed when it ended so badly.
The next morning I thought of staying in bed for the rest of my life, but Holly was arriving for a tour of my school around noon. Of course, she fell at the harbor and then made the problem worse by ignoring Martin's medical advice and seriously injuring herself by falling again. This time she fell on a broken milk bottle at my cottage. It galled me having to call Martin a second time to treat Holly, but I was impressed when he saved her life after she suffered an allergic reaction to morphine.
After Holly was taken by ambulance to Truro Hospital, Martin and I said nothing as we picked up glass from the broken bottle on my kitchen floor. As he left my cottage, I said he was an extraordinary man and – at that moment – I meant it. He walked out the door saying that he wasn't extraordinary, and I returned to wiping up Holly's blood, thinking he could not even accept a compliment gracefully. An instant later, Martin returned looking quite distressed and said: "Come to London with me, Louisa."
I didn't trust my hearing and said: "What was that Martin."
"London, Louisa. Come there with me next weekend."
This is exactly what Caroline had been suggesting: get away from Portwenn with Martin and the prying gossips who made his life miserable. No one would notice us in London. We could enjoy ourselves and really get to know each other. With most things in our tenuous relationship, including the concert, I had to take the initiative, but this time Martin asked that we do something - together. That, alone, was irresistible.
Martin explained that he was going to London Thursday next for a conference where he would present a research paper for work he began while at St. Thomas's. Reflecting my thoughts, he said it would be good to be away from Portwenn . There would be no interruptions, only time together. He planned to ask me after the concert, but he had stuck his foot in it and I told him I never wanted to see him again.
I asked if he was certain and said that I didn't want to have a weekend arguing with him and being annoyed by his thoughtless comments. A second time I asked if he was certain he wanted to spend a weekend in London with me. He assured me that he did and wouldn't have asked me otherwise.
Of course, Friday was report day for parents and couldn't be rescheduled. If I moved the parents along quickly, I could get to Bodmin Parkway for the afternoon train to London. I asked Martin if I could arrive in the evening.
Martin would be at the conference all day and the evening would actually be better. He was meeting his tutor, Robert Southwood, for dinner but should be finished by 8 or so. The new owners of his flat were in Milan visiting their daughter, and they generously offered the flat to Martin for his time in London. Perhaps concerned about sleeping arrangements, he explained that there was plenty of room in the flat and that we could go to his clock shop or any place I wanted. He just wanted me to come to London.
Taking a deep breath and with the hope that the weekend away would be useful, I said "Of course, I'll come to London Martin. It sounds – well it sounds wonderful."
This is what happened that weekend and the events it set in motion.
