A New GP

by robspace54

There is a start to every story, and sometimes a story before that.

A New GP

by robspace54

The characters, places and situations of Doc Martin, are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story places no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.

"Oh dear, that can't be good," Bert Large was muttering for he'd heard some sort of a yell coming from the Doc's house next door.

"Dad?" Al asked, for he had his head down peering into the guts of an ancient toilet.

"Don't you hear that?" his father asked him. "Some sorta yappin' noise. Almost a scream."

"Here what? All I can hear is you barking on and the sounds of water pourin' outta this leaking flush valve."

"No, no," Bert told him, "I did hear summat." He waddled to the front door, opened it and peering to the left caught a glimpse of Lady Brading scrambling into her car and buzzing away at great speed. "Ah."

"Ah, what?"

"Ah, as in oh I just seen Lady Brading go bolting outta the Doc's house. And she didn't look too happy either." Bert stuck his head beyond the door casing and looked harder over at the Doc's house. "I do think the door's open over there."

Al downed tools, wiped his hands on a grimy rag and added his eyes to his dad's. He took a look and shrugged. "Dunno."

"Boy I think we oughta have a look see."

Al rolled his eyes. "At what?"

"I don't know! Now quit asking me questions!"

"What's going on," the homeowner asked them. "What you two boys going on about?"

Bert touched his cap when he turned and nodded at old Mrs. Dockery. "Nuttin much, only I'm thinking that Lady Brading…" he stopped for this nice church lady surely didn't want to hear his own theory about Lady Brading and her visits to the Doc.

Mrs. Dockery huffed, "That hussy," she hissed. "She's been up there a lot lately." She stuck her righteous Methodist pose. "In my day married women did not visit single men late at night!" she grumbled then peered through thick glasses at her watch. "It's near nine; full dark and she's running about!" The way she said it there was no doubt that Mrs. Dockery felt Susan Brading was beneath her contempt. "That woman ought to be home fixing dinner for the Colonel."

"Now, now, Carrie," Bert rebuked her. "Just that she come runnin' out fast like, and that wasn't… uhm, well…"

"Wasn't what?" Al asked.

Bert turned his face to his son. "Never you mind."

Mrs. Dockery tugged her frayed pink sweater further across her ample bosoms. "Now are you two going to stand there with my front door wide open letting what heat a poor widow can afford escape or are you going to fix my toilet?"

Bert looked at Al and made a decision. "Tell you what? Me and the boy will go next door for I think the Doc's door is standing wide open." He grabbed Al with one hand and the door knob with the other. "Come on boy, let's have a look see."

The wind was up and Al dragged the collar of his coveralls higher on his neck. "It's bloody freezin' out here Dad!" he protested. "Let's get our coats at least!"

"Shush! Now come on! Quick march!" Bert told him then shuffled uphill to the gray stone house where the village GP both lived and had his surgery. When they got up on the terrace it was obvious that the house front door was standing wide open and but for one light upstairs and the light over the door the rest of the house was dark.

Bert stuck his head inside. "Doc?" he whispered. "You alright in there?"

Al shook his head. "This is a bad idea, Dad. We oughta call Mylow." He pulled out his mobile and bounced it in his hand. "Something must be wrong."

"Shush! Hey Doc!" he called again and was only answered by the wind. He laughed slightly in a nervous. "None of our bees wax, but we wonder if you're okay?"

"So what makes you think there's something wrong anyway?" Al whispered to him.

Bert cast his hound dog eyes on his son. "Because when a lady runs off tying up her Burberry and I can see she weren't wearing nuthin' under it there is summat wrong!"

"Oh." Al scratched the back of his neck. "I guess, that might say something."

"Like she and the Doc was sayin' hello to Sir John," Bert chortled.

"Dad!"

Bert took a step to the dark doorway and gulped hard. "Doc?" he called again.

Al shook his head. "Stop it Dad."

Bert entered the darkened house. "Hello?" Light filtered down the stairs from above. Bert called a second time, "Doc? You in here?" he was startled by Al jostling him. "Boy! You near to give me a heart attack!"

Al chuckled quietly. "Well we're in the right place then, ain't we?" He pulled a small pocket torch from his breast pocket, turned it on, and flashed it around the room. "Looks okay."

"Shush!" Bert looked around reception in the dimness. "Don't see nuthin' amiss."

Al walked past him and disappeared into the darkness and Bert heard only the creaking of floor boards and doors swinging open and closed. He came back in a minute, backlit by the hall light which he'd switched on. "Not in the kitchen or the lounge or his office."

Father and son peered at one another. "Must be upstairs," Bert muttered. "Come on boy."

"Bert? Al?" a voice called out behind them. "It's me, Mark."

Startled they turned to see Mark Mylow, the village PC scrutinizing them. "Mrs. Dockery called me. She said something funny going over here. What are you two up to?"

Bert explained. "I heard a noise, like a muffled scream, sorta, so me and the boy… well I did see Susan Brading go dashing off from up here and let me tell you she weren't dressed for the weather, if you get my drift."

"The house seems to be empty, but we haven't checked upstairs," Al added.

Mylow nodded. "Okay," he sighed then called up the stairs. "Doc? You up there? It's Mark Mylow! Bert and Al Large as well! Everything okay?"

His only answer was a gust of wind which blew the front door open wider with a bang.

Mark nodded, almost to himself. "Right," he took a deep breath and slowly climbed the stairs, still calling for the GP.

Bert and Al waited below until Mylow reappeared and they saw the Police Constable haltingly came back down.

"The Doc up there?" Bert asked.

Mark sat down on the stairs in front of the village plumbers and rested his elbows on his knees, his head drooping.

"Mark?" Al said softly. "Wot's wrong?"

The cop's head shook as he stared at the floor then his neck bent to show Bert and Al his wide eyes. "No. Uhm, he is… up there."

"Oh," Bert said, "So he's okay then."

Mark fumbled for his radio. "No." he lifted the radio to his lips and spoke. "Dispatch, this is PC Mylow, Portwenn, uhm, I'm gonna need…"

"What you gonna need?" Bert prodded. "What does the Doc need?"

Mylow shook his head. "An ambulance, sort of."

"Is he sick?" Al responded.

"If only," Mylow sighed. "He's dead. Doc Sim is dead," Mylow said softly. "Yes," he spoke into his radio. "I've got a man, aged 70 or thereabouts, Doctor Jim Sim – deceased. Yep," he sighed into the mic, "our village GP is dead."

Bert and Al turned to look at one another in surprise then back at Mylow. "He can't be! I seen him myself this afternoon," Bert protested.

"Looks like a heart attack, I'm thinking," Mylow said to Dispatch. "Right. Couple of citizens found him; sort of."

000

The phone was ringing when Chris Parsons got home after a very hard day at the hospital plus a late meeting at Truro Hospital and he was not happy. Budgets! Always the damn PCT budgets, he grumbled to himself, as he snatched up the desk telephone. "Hello?" he snapped into the instrument.

"Dr. Parsons?" A tremulous man's voice asked.

"Yes?" he snapped once more. "What's this about?"

"This is PC Mylow calling. Sorry to bother you at home, but… well, I…"

"Yes officer? This is about my wife's parking tickets isn't it? I told Diana she ought to pay those, but you know how we can all be forgetful at times," he mumbled apologetically.

"No, no. Look it's like this; I patrol the village of Portwenn and 'round those parts and… I hate to call you... but I found your number on our GP's desk…"

"Portwenn? Oh that would be Jim Sim," he said. "So you been talking to Jim? How can I help you officer?"

"No, not exactly," Mylow told him, "not talk, but I am at his house. He's died you see."

"What's that you say?"

"Doctor Sim, our GP," Mylow told him, "Doctor Sim is dead. Found him in his bed."

Chris slumped into a chair. "Lord."

Mark clamped his fingers around the phone tightly. "It… it mighta been he was having… well… looks like he was with someone… a female. Because he was… nekkid."

Chris sighed, for he had knew that Sim, a life-long bachelor, played the field, and he'd heard plenty of stories, as well as complaints. "He wasn't young."

"No. I've got the ambulance boys here and they was wonderin' who to call, I mean next of kin, all that, so I found your number, on his desk."

Chris sighed. "Well, they'll bring him here to the morgue, and I'll look into Dr. Sims files for the other information." He heard the young cop on the line sigh in relief.

"Good," the man told him. "I'll put that in my report."

"Anything else?" Chris asked for he'd heard his wife and kids come into the house. "Do you think it was natural? I mean was the cause of death – look – was there anything funny about the place?"

"Chris?" Diana asked when she saw his stricken face. "Everything okay?"

Chris waved her off. "Officer, might I have your number if I have any further questions?"

Mark rattled off the station number as well as his mobile. "Sorry to call like this. But no, just the Doc in the bed, no clothes, and two glasses on the table and an opened bottle of red wine, mostly empty."

"You're sure, uhm, how to say, he was… oh, with someone?"

Mark squirmed. "Fairly certain, yes and I know who she is."

Chris nodded. "Right. Shocking." That was how his father had died, an M.I. right in the middle of… "Fine, then. Thanks for calling." His mum never quite got over the shock – passion one moment then intense shock and sorrow.

"Goodbye, Doctor," Mark told him and hung up.

"What's happened?" Diana Parsons asked. "We were out – Dan needed supplies for a school report."

"Fine, fine," Chris muttered. "One of our old GP's just died." He slowly put the handset back on the cradle.

"Oh dear," his wife said.

"He was rather old, and likely shouldn't have still been working, but…" he smiled grimly. "Hard to get some of these old fellows to hang it up."

Diana touched his arm in sympathy. "Sorry. Have you eaten?"

"Just a sandwich, from the hospital canteen – and it tasted like it was made last week."

"I'll cook up some eggs if you like."

Chris stood up and put his arms around her.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine, yes." He took a deep breath. "Just a shock is all. Now I need to find a replacement."

000

Retraining was finished, thank God, he thought to himself. He scrolled down the website looking at GP openings posted. Cumbria! Too bloody cold. Manchester? Too rainy. Dorset? He actually read that one.

Established practice - roughly three thousand people in the district. This is a two doctor practice and are adding a third to do rural rounds…

He stopped when he read 'rural rounds' for driving up and down lanes searching for remote homesteads appealed to him not at all.

Other positions were posted and none seemed appealing other than two. One near Nottingham and another in Norwich. From the dates on those two they had been unfilled for some time so it was likely the job was grim and paid poorly – but for that matter, what did he have to lose?

There was another situation at the very bottom of the list, just posted that morning.

North Cornwall – Portwenn and environs – Immediate need for a GP well versed in all aspects of medicine from basics to emergency medicine. Will pay to relocate. Please contact Dr. Christopher Parsons at Truro Hospital…

Martin stopped when he read that name. Chris Parsons? Not his Chris? Parsons – balding in medical school and tubby even then. Chris was one of the rare people he could say he actually had stayed in contact with from his school years, although a Christmas card and one phone call per year hardly qualified as friendship.

And it was in Portwenn - his Auntie Joan lived there. He hadn't been down that way since Uncle Phil died ten years ago. Shame about Phil but his motor neuron disease must have horrible, he was certain.

He rubbed his head where a headache was beginning for he still mourned for his lost career – Head of Vascular at St Johns; the Midas Touch – Golden Hands Ellingham – and a right bastard besides.

That what's they said about him; Golden Hands but a pain in the arse to work for or be treated by. Yet none of his patients died or had to suffer long convalesces after he'd operated on their dicky hearts, clogged veins and arteries, and aneurysms and each student he had trained either became top people or ran away with their tails between their legs to start over in orthopedics or proctology.

He clicked on the link in the job notice then stared long and hard at the telephone number that appeared before he dialed it.

"Truro Hospital," a bright young voice answered musically. "Dr. Parson's office."

"Put me through to Dr. Parsons."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

His mouth went dry. He'd not seen Parsons in years, over fifteen actually, and that was when Chris married. What was her name? Daphne, Dorothy? Diane?

He had to cough to get some air. "Dr. Martin Ellingham."

"Oh my God! Mart!" Chris's voice exploded from the telephone when the secretary had put him thru. "My God! Of all the people to call! How are things up in London? Still terrorizing the registrars?" he laughed. "Funny for Diana and I were talking about the old days and your name came up."

"Hello."

"So to what do I owe the honour? Or is this a social call?" Chris said knowing full well that Mart never did social anything.

Martin froze his glottis locked in panic. He'd have to say it… blurt it out. "I… I've decided on a career change, Chris. I'm a GP now."

"Whaaa? No, well, that is a… surprise." Chris froze for he had heard rumors about a London surgeon who had to hang it up. "How come? I mean why?"

"Personal reasons."

"So how can I help you?"

Martin took a deep breath. "I am looking for a job and I see PCT has an opening in Portwenn."

Chris shook his head not believing what he was hearing. "And you want it."

"Yes."

"I'm sure you could do the job."

"Of course I can!" Martin exploded. Runny noses, athlete's feet, and high blood pressure appealed to him not one bit but since he needed a job… so he moderated his tone. "I can – I would."

Chris didn't say anything for a bit but then he asked, "Personal reasons?"

Martin sighed for it had to come out and who else could he tell it to? "I… I became unable to perform surgery."

"Oh." Chris' heart fell. "I'd heard something…"

Martin sighed again. "Chris, I suffer from mild panic attacks."

Chris shook his head at what Mart was yelling him. "Oh dear."

"Yes," replied Martin. "Oh dear," he echoed sarcastically.

"And your mild panic attacks… they are… uhm, so you can't do surgery. Jesus."

Martin could only hold the line and try not to throw the mobile across the room.

"Admit it," the psychiatrist's voice echoed through his head. "You have to face it, Dr. Ellingham."

He was saved by saying anything else when Chris said, "What a cruel joke."

"Sweats, tremors, nausea sometimes," Martin added. "I actually passed out when I tried to go in on an op in progress."

"What caused it? I mean I suppose you're explored this with someone?"

Martin took a deep breath. "I have."

Chris shook his head in sorrow for his friend, for he did think of Mart, as friend – an odd one – but a friend all the same. This was the man who coached him through gross anatomy, organic chemistry, and neurology; so he owed the man. "The pressure got to you. I could never do surgery myself – not like you."

His answer was dead air.

"So, Mart?"

"Yes?"

"The GP spot, how do you propose to...? Well, how will you get on?"

"I've retrained as a GP – it was an accelerated course from Kings College."

Chris said, "I'm sure you were top of your class." He stopped when he realized how that might sound sarcastic. "Sorry. Of course you were."

Martin took a deep breath. "Blood and cauterized flesh seem to be my triggers."

"Seem to be?"

"Are."

"So what about blood draws? What about those?"

"Not a problem," Martin lied for the sight of blood flowing into a sample container or thru an IV line did make his gorge rise; one thing the psych man cautioned him about.

"Dr. Ellingham," the man had told him, "you may never be over it. Not really; unless we can delve deep into your root cause, and there may be several. That will take time; years perhaps."

That was the kicker. There were reasons that he was the way he was – how he reacted, what he ate, when he slept, and with whom. "No," was his response. "I'm fine," became his stock answer to all the probing and too personal inquiries.

Chris let the silence stretch. "I'm very sure you can do the job, Mart. Someone of your intellect… we'd be very lucky to have you."

Martin nearly smiled into the phone although his forehead pounded and his armpits had gone very damp. "What's next?"

"Ah, yes, well I'll hand you off to my secretary and she'll give you my email. Send your CV on and I'll get the ball rolling."

"Ball?"

"Mart, it's not like I can just hire you on the spot. We have to put a committee together – one from the PCT and the community – and go through that process."

"Oh," Martin said with obvious disappointment.

"It won't take long. Perhaps next week, if you can manage that; come down for a meeting."

Martin nearly laughed. "It's not like I have anything on my schedule," he grunted.

Chris did laugh for this was classic Ellingham – making a sardonic comment and not getting the joke of it. He hadn't changed; not one bit. "Capital. Good then. Let's just see where this goes but I certain we can do this. I'll back you as much as I can, Mart, you should know that."

"Fine. Good."

"I am so glad you called me and hang on for my secretary. Bye Mart."

"Goodbye," Martin said and waited for the next step in the process.

000

The next Monday morning Martin was on a commuter aircraft flying from London through Exeter to Newquay, since the train got in too late and the meeting was near two PM.

He tried to read his newspaper but his eyes kept getting drawn to the young brunette woman sitting knee-to-knee with him in the exit row. He had been stuck in the bulkhead seat so he was riding backwards, a position he hated but he had to buy his ticket at the last minute, however he had to face the woman, and he could not take his eyes off her.

Louisa Glasson tried not to stare at the tall man facing her but his suit looked expensive and his shoes so brilliantly polished they fairly shone by their own light. Louisa had tried once to engage him in conversation along with a smile when they boarded but he looked away brushing at his lapel. She hadn't seen any fluff there but she did appreciate his dapper attire as well as his green eyes and short hair. His ears were a bit big, but… she sighed… too bad.

So she yearned to herself and watched the coastline flow past the windows of the commuter plane. It would be good to be moving back home. Granted she'd already been working in Portwenn for the Fall term, after her job in Wales had ended, but she had to go back up there to close out the flat she'd sublet up there.

Louisa had to admit to herself that she was country girl – worse a Cornish country girl – and after teaching in Portwenn for a few years had felt constrained by living in the village she grew up in. London was far too busy and cosmopolitan and she missed the sea. But even as nice as the school had been in Newport, it wasn't home, so when she found a spot open for maths, science, and English in Portwenn primary she'd jumped at the chance. So with her Welsh adventure of two years behind her, she was quite happy to be firmly ensconced in Portwenn again.

There, she saw him look at her again, and it must have been for the twentieth time. Not just look, but stare. She glanced out the window then at him again, and now he was showing interest, worse, it wasn't a look - look, it was the sort of look a man used when he was undressing her with his eyes. She nervously flicked her hair from her face as he leaned forward.

She leaned towards him and gave it to him; for she'd had enough of that sort of look "You've got problem!" she told him in anger, then jumped up and changed seats.

She glared at him until he went back to his reading. The nerve! She smoldered all the way to landing and wheel stop. So the glances he was giving her weren't a come on, just a pervy look! God, she hated men who did that!

Louisa exited the plane fast as she could, grabbed her overnight bag off the conveyor, for she'd flown up on Saturday, stopped in the loo to relieve herself and fix her face, then got straight to the carpark and drove off.

She checked her watch and sped up for she had just enough time to get to The Castle Hotel for the meeting.

000

Louisa walked into the meeting room and froze for there he was! The pervert on the plane was the candidate for the GP spot! Oh God! She smiled at Dr. Parsons, for she'd met him before at a community health thing, which is how he knew her. She was chuffed when he called and asked for her participation on the Selection Board. Granted she was just a lay person, but as Parsons had told her, "You know Portwenn inside and out Miss Glasson. I'm quite sure you'll be an asset to the committee."

So now she gritted her teeth as Parsons and the rest of the health system fawned over this tosser. He answered all their questions too glibly she thought, and Parsons ran the meeting as if it was all pro forma; a done deal.

That's when she asked this Ellingham about his interpersonal skills for everyone knew how surgeons acted; rude and discourteous, exactly the way he had been on the plane, despite her obvious interest in him.

Or perhaps he didn't swing that way? she mused. But if he wasn't interested in her as a woman then what in bloody hell was that whole checking her out thing during the entire plane flight?

Parsons poured cold water on all her questions, or tried to, but she really got cranked up during the discussion when the candidate was out of the room. She could see they all thought she was off her rocker; they all kept saying what a great surgeon the man was and a fine doctor. She argued back that being a village GP was a hell of a lot more than just taking temperatures and writing prescriptions. There had to be a rapport of some sort but from this guy, fotget it!

Granted Jim Sim was too much that way – too familiar – and she had heard how he'd been snogging Lady Brading; at least that's what they all said, if not some of the other lonely widows. That was one of the reasons that she'd skipped an annual physical for the last couple of years she lived in the village as Dr. Sim tended to get rather panty and red in the face when he did a pelvic exam on her along with his bad breath and rough hands.

But this man, Martin Ellingham, would go too far the other way. Cold, and aloof, she saw that plain as day. She was very certain that Portwenn was in for a tough ride with their new GP. Ellingham was a toff and he'd sneer down his nose every step of the way.

Now his Aunt Joan Norton was a sweetheart, and she'd known the woman her whole life. She crossed her arms and kept her hands firmly locked under her arm pits when Parson took a vote of the Board. She was the only dissenter but she didn't care. At least she'd had her say, not only with the Board but to his face.

But when Ellingham told her she had a medical condition, acute glaucoma, in her right eye, the world seemed to spin about her. So when the ophthalmologist looked at her pressure readings and peered deeper at her retina, she felt somewhat ashamed for the way she had badgered the man.

"Glaucoma?" her quivering voice got out.

"Oh yes," the eye specialist told her. "Definitely. Good that we caught it before there was any lasting damage."

She had to drive into Truro and they held the office open until she got there for their Mondays were normally a short day for them. "You say this Dr. Ellingham diagnosed your condition with one look?"

She squirmed under his gaze. "Maybe more than one look, he..." she gulped, "He looked a lot. Afraid I told him off about it."

The eye doctor smiled at her. "I get to stare into the eyes of many women, and men, every day. Lucky for me none of them tell me off. But he was right."

Louisa chewed on her lip. "Damn," she muttered.

"Luckily for me it's part of the job," he went on, "and I do enjoy it, especially with a pretty woman such as yourself." He turned back to the computer screen and typed on the keyboard. "Here's what we'll do. Drops three times a day and an eye patch. Stay off salt for I suspect your blood pressure might be playing up. You might want to get that checked. Many of my patients have BP issues but a lot of them are older."

"How long? The patch and so on."

"Two weeks. Keep the patch on for one week. Call if you have problems, but it's very good we caught this when we did. Dr. Ellingham, you say?"

"Yeah," sighed Louisa. "Dr. Martin Ellingham. He's our new GP."

The eye doctor nodded. "Well if is this if the sort of thing he can do in a few seconds just by looking you will be very fortunate to have him tending to your village! Now we have a pharmacy on the ground floor of the building and you can get these scrips filled there. My nurse will show you how to administer the drugs with these sample drops, fit your eyepatch, and she'll also give you some pamphlets about glaucoma. Let's have you back in two weeks for a checkup. Right?"

When all was said and done Louisa got into her Ford and sat there for a full minute before she felt able to drive. "Martin Ellingham," she muttered. "Right. Our new GP. Well… we shall see how it goes," she said through gritted teeth. "But he'd better not be a stuck-up, standoffish, tosser!"

Still he was tall and dressed nicely...

She shook herself before she started the car and drove back to Portwenn.

THE END

Notes on the demise of "old Jim Sim." In DM Series 1, Episode 1 "Going Bodmin" Bert Large was informing Doc Martin about Lady (Susan) Brading, wife of Colonel Spencer. It was said that Lady Brading was with Doc Sim the night he died... so I didn't make it up!

Note 2: From what I can gather being on the wrong side of the pond, "Sir John" is a euphemism for sexual congress. "Like she and the Doc was sayin' hello to Sir John," Bert chortled.