One Plus One

by robspace54

Orbits

Just knowing that things were going to be different did not change the fact that things were stressful. If anything, knowing it would be stressful made things even more stressful.

Doctor Martin Ellingham, GP, had quit his job and prepared to move to London imagining that he was able to return to surgery, his haemophobia having gone away.

I was under incredible stress knowing that he would not be here in Portwenn and I would most likely not see him often and was well aware I was to raise a child by myself, or so I thought.

Seeing the fat check he wrote for the baby's raising and the schedule of payments for the next eighteen years had to be the most non-romantic moment of my entire life. And as I stood in the school yard and looked down at my very pregnant belly, I knew in my heart of hearts that any chance of Martin and me being together, was finally and once and for all gone.

Right at that moment, as I helped Alicia shepherd the children inside the building from playtime, the baby inside me kicked and felt quite heavy. I wanted to turn and race, if that was possible in my pregnant state, back to Martin who was standing only feet away, throw my arms about him and keep him from going.

Well what would you have said Louisa? 'Don't go Martin' or 'I love you Martin' or just what? How about 'I've made a dreadful mess of things and I have to fix it! Will you help me?' might have worked. But no, I stupidly made my way into the school, trying to hide my tears from the students and Alicia. But Alicia could tell; the way she put a hand on my arm said it all.

But things have changed, in some ways I could not imagine. Giving birth in a pub was an experience I had not planned on. But it got sorted.

Just now the baby is crying, and my nipples leak milk each time I hear my son cry, plus every time I cough or sneeze I wet myself a little and I have to deal with other things too – namely Martin Ellingham. So things are a little tough to get through, but there are moments they are alright.

Leaking lactation, as Martin called it, is perfectly normal, especially with Philip only two weeks old, but the clinical explanation of how the hormone prolactin is produced in the pituitary gland and is mediated in the cerebral cortex along with … the lecture was long, involved and confusing. The fix is very practical – the wonderfully named nursing pads and a decent nursing bra.

The bottom line is called on demand nursing – meaning when Philip cries I feed him. I was now on the sofa, quite comfortable with Philip nursing away, and a hungry little bugger he is, while the other baby in the house fussed and fumed, giving me advice I neither needed nor wanted.

"Louisa! Is he getting enough air? And don't press his face so tightly against your breast – there have been any number of studies…"

I held up my left hand, the right one cradling Philip in position to nurse. Martin, luckily for him, understood the stop signal straight away.

"Martin," I said quietly, "do shut up."

He snapped his mouth shut and left the room.

So here we are; certainly not worse than before.

When I was pregnant, I was upset and worried as I didn't know how to break down the wall that Martin and I had built between us. Every time I thought I might make progress on that front there was Edith Montgomery with her ginger hair and green eyes, plus trim figure, like some wide eyed pixie witch, all possessively close to Martin.

Did she really want Martin because she once had him? Or was she was hell bent on making me out to be the poor little country bumpkin so she could whisk Martin off to the big city, where she could drag him into bed? Was it all a power play – that she could exercise more power than I – power over one man?

And safe to say that Martin has his own demons – rude and obstinate little buggers they were and are.

I looked down at the baby, half asleep, but still sucking away, bless him. I tried to make happy thoughts during these times, but one's mind does wander.

As for dragging Martin into bed, I was quite sure that Edith would have needed a winch and a heavy hawser to do so. He's not the smartest person in the world by far with people signals.

Martin is at times his own planet - no his own universe - spinning merrily away in space with his own physical laws orbiting some odd sun of his own making.

You too, Louisa Glasson, I told myself, have your own stubbornness and faults. Poor Danny Steele swept into town to help his mum, started working on her house, and tried, really tried hard, to get close to you. All those years ago in school, when he was more than a best friend, that was fine. But what he wanted wasn't at all what you wanted, was it, Louisa? He wanted you, didn't he?

But all you had eyes for was that tall doctor across the Portwenn harbour. And when Danny got that contract offer in London he didn't understand what made you tick at all now did he? It wasn't just about leaving Portwenn for London either.

As for planets, you too old girl, wish to be queen of your own little world. You can only see what you want to see at times. And what's that Louisa? Having second thoughts about this arrangement? That Martin and you would live together, but still orbit around in your own unique little solar systems?

Well, Martin needed somewhere to live, the surgery cottage now taken over by Dr. Exley, Portwenn's new GP. And you and he did have those precious moments, overlaid with the hot memories of labor, when you and Martin broke down your walls of isolation. Words that you should have said months before – all the way back to our wedding, which did not happen.

Martin still needs a job; the money won't last forever; and he's not made a move in that direction. And the summer break will come to an end early September, and you'll go back to work then, so what of Martin and little Philip then?

I hear Martin bustling about in the kitchen. We'd managed to move back into White Rose Cottage, my own, when Mr. Strain's lease was up. Poor man, after his recovery from his medically induced madness felt he couldn't return to Portwenn Primary School, and spent the next months writing a book, which has now found a publisher.

He told me the book's title 'Losing My Mind and Finding It' when he dropped off the cottage keys. His eyes shone as he told me of the huge interest of a really good publishing house. "Just think, Louisa, who'd have thought I could go mad and make money on it?" he chuckled as he walked to his car, a rather nice new Ford. "I'll send you a copy!" he called out as he drove away.

Having the keys in my hot little hand Bert and Al Large rapidly shuttled the contents of Mr. Rutledge's cottage to my own, only doors away. A busy day and one that held great promise. To have my own cottage back, granted it was in the same row and all, was a statement that I was home. I'd felt rootless for eight months but now I felt grounded – well at least I had my house back.

Aunty Joan Norton was with us on moving day to help. "Louisa, I hope you stay here a long time," she beamed that afternoon as she brought hampers of food to fill the fridge and pantry. "So nice to have you back in your own digs!" She then looked over at Martin, who was carrying a box upstairs. She tossed her head towards her nephew and dropped her voice. "How are… er… things between you and Martin?"

"Make way, Joan!" yelled out Bert Large. "Coming through with the sofa! Wouldn't want to knock you down the steps."

Al came along, "Watch out, Louisa and Joan, both of you! With dad in the lead he'd knock you right over and not notice."

"Now, Al, you know that's not true!" I answered.

Bert spoke up, "What Al says is true up to a point. There was one time…"

"Not now, dad. Save your story for later!" Al responded.

Joan moved aside as the sofa came back to its given spot, where it and I sit right now.

"Well, Joan, we're doing… ok." I answered her, probably not very convincingly as the furniture was placed.

Joan grimaced at me as I stood there cradling Philip. She spoke softly. "Just you remember that Marty needs course corrections once in a while. He's not as smart as he thinks; you know as well as I…"

The baby fussed just as Martin came downstairs. "Aunty Joan, Louisa, everything alright?" he asked. "The baby's fussing! Does he have colic? Does he need changing?"

"Fine, Martin, we're just fine," I answered one week ago. But it wasn't quite true.

I hear the oven door open as Martin pushes in the baking tray with tonight's dinner, fish of course, but I really could do with some red meat. I sighed, pulled Philip loose, burped him a little, then switched sides and settled him onto the left. He fussed a bit then settled down. I wish that Martin was as manageable.

Yet martin did manage to modify his behavior somewhat in the last two weeks. He was generally helpful, if a bit too much at times, like the advice about nursing. He was an excellent cook and there was no one else in Portwenn, I am certain, who could scrub a floor quite like him – very scientific, with unique solutions of soap, water temperature, and size and style of scrub brush and mop.

And although the nappy changing duty was bad for anyone, Martin wrinkled his nose and plunged in, all the while commenting on the softness of the nappies, the relative merits of talcum powder versus none, and inspecting poor little Philip's stools like some sort of scientific inquest.

Just now for instance he was not wearing a suit. One of the rare times I've seen him without one, at least with the lights on. Oh the trousers were from one of his many suits, but he wore no tie, the proper suit coat was in a wardrobe upstairs, and the light blue shirt was less than freshly pressed. His shoes were sparklingly polished - he could make leather brilliant after a session with buffing cloth and polish. If only he'd rub me that way… Louisa, now stop it!

Martin looked up from the electric cooker. "Louisa?" He stood there wearing ridiculous oven mitts on his hands – one a lobster and the other a large fish of some kind.

"Yes, Martin?"

"I was thinking that perhaps you'd want some beef occasionally. Probably good for you, especially post partum. Iron supplements aren't quite as efficient as natural sources. I could have the butcher…"

"That would be fine Martin. Good idea." Seems like we are on the same wavelength at the moment.

"Alright. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Martin, come here, would you?"

He put down the kitchen mitts and came down into the living / eating area. "Yes, Louisa?"

"Bend down."

He dropped to one knee and I put my arm around his broad shoulders. I pressed my face against his but I didn't kiss it. He stayed motionless and I could smell his aftershave, a little perspiration, the smell of his shampoo, and the aroma of Doc Martin that I remember well.

Does having a baby make you more sensitive to smells? Certainly early in pregnancy the slightest 'off' scent could have me running for the loo. But just now I can tell the smell of everything in this room and more.

Martin kissed my forehead then bent down to kiss Philip. He looked up at me. "Thank you Louisa," he said softly, with his hand on Philip's tiny head, not quite as misshapen as at birth.

"Thank you, Martin? What ever for?"

He looked at the floor for a second then at me. "For my son and…"

"And?"

"For taking me back."

Two planets in space spinning madly about their own suns – now linked by this little rocket ship still nursing away.