Earth Shake
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.
Martin pointed out a farm across the bay and started telling me about an old gent who lived over there, or used to. I guess he'd met him as a boy. The man had trained a greenfinch that would sit on his finger and sing. From the soft and tender way he spoke, I could tell it really touched him. Dear Martin, dear Doc Martin; not half as weird as he seemed.
The man was an entire set of contradictions, gruff, yet caring about the medical needs of the village, lonely, yet clearly yearning for companionship and smart – so, so smart – yet so bloody dense about the simplest of things; like affection.
He spoke about the greenfinch some more and then he reached over and stroked my cheek, rubbed my ear, and cupped the side of my face. His hand was warm, and soft, and it made me feel – rather nice, if I do say so. He looked down at my lips, I think, and then up to my eyes. I wanted to tell him how lovely the bird story was, and even more, for the picnic lunch was wonderful, and I was quite surprised that he even brought a chilled sparkling wine. It was all perfect, so very perfect. It had gone far better than I imagined it might, this picnic overlooking the bay.
The sun was bright, the air was breezy yet enjoyable, and finally, finally and at last we were making progress, Martin and me. The lunch was superb, and he did sip a little, while I drank three glasses from a crystal flute. I hoped he'd not think I was a lush for I did drink a bit. Not that much really and not too often. There were a few Monday mornings I have had to pry myself out of bed, tongue feeling all furry and thick, and the kids in my class might wonder why I'd give them a labyrinth puzzle to work on – quietly – while my head throbbed as Paracetamol struggled to render some aid.
The ground started to shake just then, and earth at the cliff slipped apart, with a large crack driving straight towards us. The wine flutes wobbled and clinked together in an odd musical counterpoint to the violence racing our way. We started, Martin dropped his hand and we looked dumbfounded as this big crack thing opened up and raced towards us.
We jumped to our feet and the ground opened between us and I started falling into the crack. "Aiii! Help me! AIIII!" I plunged down into the chasm, screaming my lungs out.
A strong and large hand grabbed mine and stopped my fall; saved me really. I looked up in shock at Martin while dirt and turf showered downward. "Martin," I said both in astonishment and relief. Yes relief for he'd saved me; saved me from God knows what was down there in the depths.
"I've got yah, I've got yah, you filthy stinking dog!" Martin said. "Give it. Give it to me. Come on!"
Huh? What did he say? I would, I would, oh God I would! If only he'd just not call me a dog.
I licked my lips and was willing to give, or do, anything for the man, if only he'd not call me names. Names – bad names I knew far too well. Mum and Dad weren't all that good as married couple, or as parents, and it did put me off of relationships for quite a while. Oh there were boys, boys that would not care or mind that my mum had run off with a Spanish lover and my dad was half in and half out of jail due to some scam or other.
Villagers can be cruel, not the adults really, but school mates were less than kind. Dog, castoff, orphan, useless - you name it – I'd heard them all. Some would give some care to me, but there was always the sense of shame and deprivation that hovered about. Took me years to be shed of it; most of it.
Martin's hand held onto mine securely and I was staring up at his face, a face which seemed not straining at all under the weight of my not quite ten and a half stone. I liked that in a man, a man who was capable of some amount of strength; not a body builder but a quiet strength. I liked that in his character as well. He clearly did not give a hoot what the village or anybody thought of him. He seemed secure in his own skin, unlike me, for I worried about everything. And here he was fallen to Portwenn, career in tatters, yet he saved my eyesight despite all my doubts about how a high-and-mighty London surgeon would fare in Cornwall. I was the first of his patients, really. Then he diagnosed Roger Fenn's throat nodules and carried on, facing prejudice and suspicion, all the while holding in the secret of his fear of blood. Fancy a doctor afraid of blood? Well he sorted my eye, and Roger, and a hell of lot of others, and saved Peter Cronk too! Blood thing be damned!
"Come on, just give it to me!" his voice boomed down into the rift. "Give it!"
Give it? My lord, if he'd haul me out of this hole in the ground, I'd give him anything – anything he wanted – or needed!
So Louisa, what did you want? Um, I wanted to peel open that shirt and run my hands down his broad chest and back, push him back on the grass and kiss…
"Come on! Give it!" he shouted at me once more.
At least he wasn't screaming into my face about bad breath! But the dog thing was uncalled for! I shook my head for I was not where I seemed to be. On my back, under the duvet, staring at the ceiling. What in hell?
Martin's strident voice was coming into the room from the window? I sprang out of bed and sped over there.
"Come on. Just give it to me! Martin shouted some more. "Drop it! Give it to me! Give it to me! Let go!"
I peered around the drapes and there was Martin playing tug-of-war with the shaggy and mangy mutt that has been pestering him for the past year.
Martin finally managed to withdraw a stethoscope from the dog's mouth, as he glanced up at my bedroom window quite ashamedly, and rapidly wiping down the thing with his handkerchief stomped off. I knew how paranoid Martin was about dogs and the germs he claimed they carried. He'd most likely bin the instrument and buy another!
Had he been lurking outside my house? Hmm. I bit my lip. Well that would be rather interesting, I thought. I slumped back against the wall, felling my heart thumping like mad and various parts of me were tingling from the dream. Yes, it was a dream, right?
"Lord. And Martin, I'm no dog, not by a long shot."
I peeped outside again and there was his broad back, gray suit clad as always, marching away like he was on parade, those brilliantly polished black shoes flashing on the pavement.
"Martin – you silly man," I sighed, running my hand through my tangled hair. "Some might call you a tosser, but…" I bit my lip again. "I do like you, sort of."
Now if only my hair had been tangled from the attentions of a certain doctor. I looked at my bed. It was a nice bed, I enjoyed it; it was warm and the matrasses not too lumpy, but there was that bad spring on the side by the wall. A fine sturdy frame, one that would easily hold up two, if needed…
I stole a look again and Martin was now at the top of the hill, marching away like mad. Just then, right that very moment, he glanced back and I caught his eye. From the way he jumped he must have seen me looking. He ducked his close cropped head, squared his shoulders, and marched from my sight.
"Martin," I sighed, resting my head on my arms on the window sill. "Martin."
"Louisa?" came a cry from out on the street.
I looked up and it was Mrs. Clibb, my closest busy-body from across the street. "Oh, hi," I said casually or tried to. "Fine morning!" I crossed arms across the thin vest of my pyjamas, feeling my chest tighten in the cool air. No sense giving her the wrong idea… about anything.
"Did you see Doc Martin out here a playin' with that grimy dog? The man must be daft!" She sniffed. "The tosser woke me! What's wrong with the man?"
"No, no, I didn't. Bye then!"
I closed the drapes and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. That was one helluva weird dream! The clock showed I was late arising. Damn! I rushed into the loo and started my Monday routine. What was all that about a picnic, and wine, and Martin, and an earthquake I wondered.
It may have been a dream, but it sure shook me up for that whole morning all I could think of was the dream-Martin holding onto my hand.