Title: The Cronk Chronicles, Chapter 1 (Flight)
Author: DianeB
Rating: PG-13

Summary: Portwenn from Peter Cronk's point of view (mostly) from the S1 episodes, "The Portwenn Effect" and "Haemophobia," and the S2 episode, "In Loco." Peter is wise beyond his years, and perhaps he sees things that others cannot.

A/N: Providing only Peter's point of view proved to be quite a challenge, and I fear I may have overdone it a little. But I enjoyed myself writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Many thanks to Littleguinea from fanficdotnet for her fair eye to editing and to checking the "Americanisms." (Revised thank you: It would have helped if I had actually taken Littleguinea's advice regarding editing and "Americanisms." Alas, I did not, and this chapter ended up being posted without the fixes. So on 3/16/11, I went back and made the corrections and reposted the content of this chapter.) Written March, 2011, soon after I watched these episodes on DVD.

Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes only. I claim no right to anything affiliated with Doc Martin.


Sitting outside Mrs. Potter's house at the explicit instruction of Miss Glasson, Peter Cronk considered his predicament. It wasn't that he hated Mrs. Potter or wanted to deny the rest of his classmates the opportunity to learn about a stupid finch, it was just that lately he was bored all the time and wasn't sure how to get around it. At least Miss Glasson's discipline was better than suffering Mrs. Potter's silly bird adoration. Now, if she had something interesting or rare to show – like a gyrfalcon or a chough or something – but, no, it was always the most dreary, most common species one could find in the area. Didn't she realize that finches came by the hundreds, each one exactly the same as the next?

Perhaps the worst part of it was, he knew perfectly well what Miss Glasson was saying about being polite. He knew it wasn't about knowledge, it was about being nice to an old lady, but he just couldn't get past the bloody dullness of it and so he did what his mum was forever telling him not to do: act up. But the thing was, acting up nearly always gained him exactly what he'd wanted in the first place: sitting alone, usually in the library, but occasionally, like today, in a relatively unusual place like Mrs. Potter's front steps.

The brief thought of his mother brought an image of her to his mind. He shook his head and smiled to himself, kicking at a loose pebble. His sweet, fragile mum whose panic-induced asthma attacks were going to be the literal death of her. Try as he might, he could not stop her attacks and felt a failure because of it, wondering if that didn't have something to do with why he preferred books over people.

Probably.

Sometimes he wondered if he weren't an old man, trapped inside a nine-year-old's body. Maybe he would ask Doc Martin about it.

A sound from the back of the cottage roused Peter from his navel-gazing. He turned his head toward the sound and shifted on the step, knowing he shouldn't move. But when the sound came again, like wood banging against wood, his curiosity got the better of him. As he was carefully picking his way to the garden, his eye caught the sun's reflection on a window behind which sat Mrs. Potter at a table in front of a cage, his classmates in a circle around her, and the temptation was too much to resist. At least outside, on the other side of the glass, he could play the fool without fear of ridicule, fully willing to accept the consequence Miss Glasson would surely bestow on him. It might even mean another hour or two in the library, he thought happily, because even Miss Glasson wasn't quite getting the fact that a better punishment would be forcing him to take PE.

But after a minute of making faces through the window, he grew bored again and recalled the reason why he was back there in the first place. He looked down into the garden and saw the source of the sound.

Mrs. Potter's bird tables were in shambles, destroyed beyond recognition, and one piece of wood, dangling precariously at the end of a nail, was swinging back and forth in the sea breeze, knocking against the wooden pole as it did so.

Walking down into the garden, he was trying without success to put things right when he was caught and blamed not only for this destruction, but for other demolished bird tables throughout the village. For reasons unclear even to himself, Peter decided not to deny that he had done the deeds, even at the risk of being arrested and charged with criminal damage.

All told, he rather preferred the idea of being locked behind bars, since the alternative seemed to be making new bird tables with PC Mylow, and he was quite certain he didn't want to do that. He went so far as to voice that preference, but his wit did not impress PC Mylow.

In the end, of course, the adults made the decision for him. He was released to his mother, with a plan of making new bird tables with Mark Mylow at some point in the very near future.

An hour later, sitting alone in his room, reading Lord of the Flies for what might have been the forty-seventh time, Peter Cronk slapped the book closed and made a decidedly nine-year-old's decision about how to keep the world of Portwenn from ganging up on him.

He would leave.

Stuffing his backpack with what he determined were "necessities" (chocolate bars, books, a bottle of water, a torch with fresh batteries, a handful of coins from his bank, and his binoculars), he left his house and set off down the road, stopping only at the recycling bin to grab a piece of cardboard for a sign. He knew everyone in the village, including his dear mum, would be too caught up in that stupid dance to notice his departure, and he was not wrong.

oOo oOo oOo

Later on, unbeknownst to young Peter, the real culprit of the wrecked bird tables had been discovered in the person of Stewart, the deranged Park Ranger and his paranoid delusions about the "greys" coming into the village to feed. Standing outside the town hall, the villagers came to understand it hadn't been Peter after all and they'd been wrong to blame him, but by then Peter was already miles down the road, with no one the wiser that he was gone.

oOo oOo oOo

Spending the night in an abandoned barn was not Peter's idea of a good time, but he really didn't see any other choice. After relieving himself in the meadow beyond the barn, he made a bed of sorts in the dry but fragrant hay, pulled out his books and his torch, and, chewing on a chocolate bar, made himself as comfortable as he could. He tried to read for a while, but found he couldn't concentrate.

Being by himself in the library was one thing, but this was something else entirely. Suddenly, running away was not as glamorous as he'd imagined while sitting on his bed at home. Still, he had made the decision to go, and he would not back down from it. His mum would adjust, Miss Glasson would be relieved not to have to deal with him, and the village would be better off without him.

He glanced at his cardboard sign, propped up against a pile of bricks. Bristol was a fair distance away, but he was confident he'd get enough lifts to be there by the next night. He wasn't sure what he'd do after that, but he knew he could sort it out when he got there. He'd read Oliver Twist, after all, and he fancied himself a Twenty-First Century Artful Dodger. Bristol may not have been London, but it would do for him.

Sensing movement in the pitch-dark rafters, he recognized it for what it was: an owl. This was soon confirmed when the owl hooted softly, and it was this sound, known and comforting, that lulled Peter into an uneasy slumber.

oOo oOo oOo

The morning brought awareness that Peter was gone, which of course did nothing for his mother. Louisa, who'd called at the house to apologize to Peter for blaming him for the ruined bird tables, tried to get Joy to relax and breathe, all the while wondering how soon she could get someone looking for Peter.

oOo oOo oOo

Peter saw the car coming, but didn't identify it until the vehicle was nearly on him. Knowing he didn't have the stamina to outrun PC Mylow (too many days sitting out PE and possibly some inherited asthmatic problems, he guessed), he nevertheless felt compelled to try. Tossing the sign, he went tearing off across the field.

It didn't take long for Mylow to tackle him to the ground, and as Peter landed on his wrist and felt a sharp pain, he decided to play it up, to see if Doc Martin would take pity on him.

The doctor, unfortunately, barely gave him a second look. Both men then delivered him unceremoniously to the school, where he ended up sitting on a bench in the hallway, waiting for his mum to arrive, wondering what would become of him this time. He suspected either a lot of time behind bars for real or in the lifeboat house making bird tables with Mark Mylow.

Clearly, running away wasn't the answer, but he wasn't sure what the question was, let alone the answer. Sometimes it was hard being a kid.

He'd been there a few minutes when Doc Martin himself came to sit beside him, now apparently ready to give serious attention to his "injury." But Peter knew the doc would know right away there was nothing wrong with his wrist, so he spoke first on an entirely different subject, hoping to take the attention away from his wrist.

"Nobody wants me here. They all gang up on me."

To Peter's dismay, the doctor went about inspecting his wrist, saying "Make a fist," clearly not interested in listening to Peter's tale of woe. Peter was about to add Doc Martin to the list of people who didn't want him here when it became apparent the doctor had been listening after all. "Well, we all feel left out from time to time, Peter."

The truth of this was hard to deny, but it was equally as hard for Peter to deny a smart-arse response, missing entirely how very much he sounded exactly like Doc Martin himself. "What do you know?"

The doctor replied with what Peter already knew the doc knew. "I know there's nothing wrong with your wrist."

Peter lifted and twisted his wrist, to show how right the doc was. "Could have told you that. It's a grade one mild sprain, ligaments stretched, maybe, but not broken." He looked up and caught Doc Martin's eyes, and something inside Peter told him to chance telling the absolute truth this time. "People think I'm being rude, but I'm not. I just say what's in my head, you know?"

Brows furrowed, the doctor immediately agreed with him. "Yeah, I do know."

It seemed wrong to be happy – considering what they were talking about – but Peter was, indeed, happy he had opted for the truth, and allowed a small smile to cross his lips, a smile he was sure Doc Martin hadn't seen.

About then, Miss Glasson came out into the hallway and again apologized for blaming him about the bird tables, asking him with clear frustration why he never spoke up for himself.

Peter shrugged and didn't say anything, having no answer now any more than he'd had when he'd been in Mrs. Potter's garden. Thankfully, his mother arrived at that moment, sparing him having to say anything more about the whole lot – bird tables, sprained wrists, or whether or not he (or Doc Martin) fit in.

End Chapter 1