Disclaimer: Buffalo Pictures owns Doc Martin and all the characters and story lines. The song lyrics quoted in chapter 3 belong to James Taylor. I own nothing but my imagination.
Author's note: Beware – this story contains SPOILERS based on the internet rumor mill. Please stop reading now if you want to remain unspoiled. This is my version of how series 5 might begin. It does not reflect the ITV series 5 summaries.
Many thanks to Nicky for her beta skills, to Rob for issuing the challenge and for the whole crew at Digital Spy for supplying the rumors, photos from the filming and other tidbits that informed the writing of this story.
In the Name of the Father
Chapter 1 – Love and Death
"Watch it!" Martin exclaimed, scolding the long-suffering ambulance attendants who were busy loading the stretcher bearing me and my precious bundle into the back. "That's . . . that's my . . . that's my SON you've got there."
My heart burst with pride hearing him claim our baby in that way. It was a moment I had given up hoping for as my pregnancy progressed. Martin had seemed so distant and disinterested. Yet despite all we'd been through, here we were and Martin's words filled me with joy and warmth and happiness.
He stood, hovering really, behind the ambulance and suddenly it looked as though he had made a decision of some sort. He clambered up into the ambulance behind the attendant.
"I'm coming with you," he announced, in his authoritative London surgeon tone, daring anyone to try to object. The attendants by now were used to his bluster and just looked at one another and shrugged before climbing into the front seat.
"What about your car?" I asked.
"I'll call Auntie Joan and ask her to bring someone by to pick it up on her way to hospital – I've left the keys in it. I know she'll want to come and see him right away." He was talking to me but looking at the baby sleeping in my arms. He literally couldn't take his eyes off. In one fell swoop he was besotted.
X X X X X
"Now here we go, Mummy. That's right, support the little lamb's head. Careful, careful. Now we just put your other hand right here and there he goes. Oh what a sweet little lamb he is." The midwife was cooing as she demonstrated the proper position for nursing. The baby was sleepy and decidedly uninterested. Martin was pacing, looking anywhere but at me. I could see him struggling not to take over and at the same time mortified that he might see some of my naked flesh. I shook my head at this - for God's sake, he'd seen it all before anyway and he WAS a doctor.
"Is he latching on properly? He won't thrive if he doesn't establish a good latch."
"Martin, I think Dorothy knows what she's talking about . . ."
"That's right, Mummy. You're doing great. When he drifts off, you need to be firm and wake him up. That's a good girl. Cheerful, cheerful is the way to have a happy baby."
"For crying out loud, she's had a baby, not a lobotomy."
"Martin . . ."
The midwife gave him a black look. She was clearly exasperated with Martin, and I really couldn't blame her. He'd been pestering everyone since we arrived – shouting orders, second guessing, generally meddling and making a proper nuisance of himself. We were both relieved of course that the baby seemed fine despite his unorthodox arrival. But it was abundantly clear that getting Martin to accept that anyone else was capable of looking after our son was going to be an uphill battle.
"Martin, why don't you take a break from being his doctor and come and be his dad for a while," I cajoled, offering the baby who was now nestled in my arms, sound asleep.
He looked at me, startled. "Ah, yes." He took the baby from me and settled in the chair, his eyes glued to the sleeping infant. The midwife nodded, then wrote some more notes.
"I'll be off then, but Dr. Montgomery will be by to see you in the morning."
Martin made a non-committal sound of acknowledgement without really hearing what she had said, and I rolled my eyes at the prospect of seeing Edith Montgomery again. Well this ought to be the last encounter I would have with her. I couldn't speak for Martin, of course, but I had no intention of returning to her clinic as a patient.
"Thank you, Dorothy," I said as she disappeared out the door.
I smiled to myself, watching Martin gaze so lovingly at the baby. He lifted him to his shoulder and nuzzled his tiny head. Such a change had come over Martin in the last few hours. It was really remarkable how quickly he had fallen completely in love with his son.
He must have felt my eyes upon him, for just then he looked up at me and smiled gently.
"How's he doing, then?" I asked, softly.
"Er, fine. He's just fine." No mentioned of misshapen heads this time, to my relief.
"You know, we can't just keep calling him 'him' or 'the baby'."
"Hmm?" Martin looked up at me but he clearly wasn't paying me any mind.
"He's going to need a name."
"Oh, yes, I guess he will." Martin looked back at the baby. "Did you choose one in advance?"
"Well I had a few ideas but it's hard. As a teacher, of course, I see loads of kids, and some names get associated with specific ones, for good or bad. There's only one Peter, for example. And I can't imagine naming him Sam or Theo after the ones I've come across lately. And some names just lead to teasing on the playground. I wouldn't want to inflict him with Harry for example, or Richard."
"No I don't suppose you would."
"I was actually more settled on a name for a girl. I was reading Lewis Carroll with my class in London when I found out . . . you know, that I was pregnant? And I thought Alice would be a really good name. I pictured a little girl with your fair hair and your blue eyes and it just seemed right. Alice Glasson." I blushed, remembering how often I had thought about Martin and a baby who looked like him in those days, before I came back to Portwenn and had my hopes for reconciliation dashed.
A tiny frown crossed Martin's face and I wondered what was bothering him. Surely it couldn't be "Alice" – I mean a girl's name was a moot point now.
"I had been thinking of 'David' for a boy. It means well-beloved and I thought that would be a kind of tangible way of letting him know how much he was loved and wanted." I swallowed the lump in my throat as I said this. I had come up with the idea as I wept in my bed in the pub over the fact that Martin didn't seem to want our baby at all.
Martin examined the baby's sleeping face again without commenting, not giving away anything about what he was thinking.
"But I'd like to know what you think, Martin. Naming him is an important step. We should both . . . participate . . at least if you want to." I said this shyly. I could tell already that Martin's original concept of staying permanently away was no longer in the cards, not the way he was relating to his son. But what involvement he intended to have was still unclear.
"Thank you, Louisa."
I was confused. "What are you thanking me for, Martin? I haven't done anything."
"Yes, yes you have. Thank you for him. Thank you for letting me be here. I know you didn't want me involved, that you wanted to do this all by yourself. And I can't blame you. I mean, I'm no one's idea of proper father material."
"Well you're equally responsible for his being here, so I suppose I need to thank you too. Without you, I wouldn't be anyone's mum either. And I never said I didn't want you to be involved, I just said you didn't have to be involved. I mean the first thing you mentioned when I came back was an abortion. That wasn't exactly the reaction you'd expect from someone who was dying to be a father."
"Don't hold that against me, Louisa. I didn't mean I wanted you to have one. I was just shocked and overwhelmed. And since you couldn't bear to see me, couldn't even bear to be in the same village as me, it was very hard to believe you'd want to have my child." His voice was soft, and seemed to be filled with regret.
"Well, I never expected to find you'd moved on into another relationship so quickly. I mean I didn't have the right to expect you to be waiting for me to come back exactly, but finding you having a cozy tête-à-tête with . .. with THAT WOMAN surprised me more than I can say. And if you had moved on like that, it didn't seem like you'd want to be saddled with obligations to me and to our baby, not if you were planning a future with her."
Martin looked stunned. "What are you talking about? I wasn't planning a future with anyone. I hadn't moved on." He shifted, uncomfortably in his seat. "I still haven't been able to move on." He looked down at his shoes.
"What about Edith Montgomery?"
Before he could answer, we were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat.
"Dr. Ellingham?" A stranger in blue scrubs was standing at the foot of my bed. Martin was caught with his mouth open and was clearly beyond irritated at having his train of thought derailed. He turned his head briefly and barked. "Go away, you're interrupting."
The stranger ignored Martin's rudeness and waded in with a forced cheerfulness. "Dr. Ellingham? I heard you were here. Congratulations, by the way."
Martin nodded, but looked outraged at the intrusion. "What do YOU want?" he asked, gruffly.
"Might I have a word? There's been an accident."
Martin looked at me and then at the baby, puzzled. "What accident? You mean the taxi? They both seem to be fine, no need for enquiries."
"No, sir, not that. There's been a crash on the motorway. A patient has been brought in . . ."
"Well this is a hospital. If the patient is here then you haven't any need for a GP."
"It's just that in the patient's records you are listed . . ."
Martin cut the man off. "I'm listed as the GP for all of Portwenn, but I've resigned. My last day was yesterday. The new GP starts Monday – Dr. Dibbs I believe her name is. If you need any records, they are still at the surgery in Portwenn. My receptionist should be able to get them for you." He turned back to the baby.
"No, I'm afraid you don't understand. I came because you are listed as next of kin."
"What?"
"Mrs. Norton. Her records show you as next of kin. So we wanted to speak with you about her condition."
"Auntie Joan? What's happened?" Martin sprang from his chair, shifting immediately into his professional persona with speed that made my head spin.
The younger man looked discomfited and nodded his head towards me. I realised Joan's situation must be quite grave if he didn't want to discuss this in my presence.
"Martin, go see about Joan. Give her my love. We'll be fine." I reached my arms out to take the baby. Martin nodded and handed him over and as he did so I covered his big hand with one of mine and gave it a quick squeeze. He looked down at me, surprised at the contact. His eyes held mine for just a minute before he gently stroked the baby's head and then hurried away with the surgeon.
X X X X X
Two hours later, my eyes fluttered open at a muffled sound I couldn't quite place. It took a moment of trying to remember exactly where I was and why my body ached so, before the mother's radar kicked in and I realised the sleepless nights of parenthood had begun with a vengeance. I was instantly awake and anxiously peering into the baby's cot. I was relieved to see the baby, who really didn't seem like a David after all, sleeping quietly. Settling back, I finally noticed Martin sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed, his head in his hands, absolutely still.
"Martin?"
He lifted his head slowly, impossibly slowly, as if it weighed a ton. "Louisa." His voice sounded strangled.
"How is Joan?"
"She's gone."
"Gone home? Back to Portwenn?"
"No, Louisa, she's GONE. She didn't survive surgery." There was that muffled sound again, and I realized he was choking back a sob.
"Oh, Martin. I'm so sorry." I couldn't believe it. Not Joan. She was so lively, so full of energy. I couldn't imagine her being gone. I swung my legs to the edge of the bed and heaved myself up. Carefully I shuffled in the hospital slippers over to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. He flinched a bit, as though his grief were so tender that the merest touch was unbearable.
I perched on the end of the bed facing him. "Would you like a glass of water?"
He shook his head no.
I felt helpless in the face of such palpable sadness. The glimmer of a chink in his armour that I had felt this afternoon had disappeared and he seemed as remote and turned-inward as he ever had been. Like a turtle, he had pulled back into his shell.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
There was a long pause. Then in a quiet and choked voice he began.
"She and Pauline drove to that pub to pick up my car. They pulled out of the car park on the way over here with Pauline in my car and Auntie Joan right behind her in her pick-up. As they went around a curve, some idiot lorry driver with bad brakes smashed into the back of Auntie Joan's truck and pushed it off the road onto the verge, where it rolled over twice."
"Oh, Martin, that sounds awful."
"Pauline saw it happen and rushed back to help her. She called for an ambulance and found my medical bag in the back of the car. She's had some first aid training with the life boat crew so she went to help Joan. Joan was unconscious. Pauline found another driver who had stopped to help and the two of them got Joan out of the truck. It was quick thinking on Pauline's part because the petrol exploded and caused a fire."
"My God. Is Pauline alright?"
"She should be. She's in shock and suffered some second-degree burns on her hands and legs from the fire. She's been admitted downstairs for the night."
"Poor Pauline. But Joan. What happened to Joan?"
"Auntie Joan's pelvis was broken and moving her out of the car probably aggravated that. She also had massive internal bleeding from injury to her liver as well as from blood vessels damaged by the broken pelvis. The ambulance brought her in and she went immediately to surgery." Martin was clearly choked up now. "She . . . she never regained consciousness."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I reached out my hand to touch his but he immediately pulled his back. He was determined not to accept comfort, and that thought saddened me beyond belief.
"I asked if I could scrub in; she needed a vascular surgery team and I knew I could save her, I just knew it. But they wouldn't let me try. Against hospital policy to treat a relative. I had to watch Adrian Pitts do it, all the while knowing his faults, his weakness, his inexperience."
This had to have been the toughest blow of all. I remembered Adrian – how could I forget the night he operated on Peter Cronk. Joan's death would obviously have devastated Martin no matter what, but to have had it happen when she was coming to see him and for him to have been denied the chance to do for her what he had done so many times for the nameless, faceless hoards of patients he had treated was tragic and so bloody unfair. No wonder he was utterly gutted.
I was completely at a loss. The day that should be one of the happiest of my life was now one filled with pain. Joan was a good friend and I would miss her. More than that, though, was my pain at watching Martin suffer in such despair. I knew I loved him. I had only been kidding myself when I considered otherwise. And at that moment, watching him stare blankly at his hands, stifling his sobs and pushing me away, I was sure. I would do anything for him. If it took the rest of my life, I was willing to try to erase that pain and get through that armour.
But even so, I was not sure at all what I meant to him. He was clearly in love with his son, but his feelings for me remained a mystery. Did he want to be my doctor, my friend or my partner? Or just my former fiancée who sent his child support payments on time?
I turned back to the cot and lifted the sleeping baby to nuzzle his head. I whispered to him, "Daddy needs you now." I went to Martin and placed our son in his arms.
Martin looked surprised to find himself holding the baby. But with the confidence bred of eight whole hours of parenthood he lifted his son to his shoulder, carefully cradling the tiny head in his hand. The baby let out a startlingly big sigh and then nestled against Martin's chin. It was like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting together - the tall man with the big hands and the tiny baby, with the same blue eyes and fair hair. I took a blanket from the cot and draped it over the baby, patting his back.
Martin looked at me and I saw a hint of hope in his eyes. A sense of peace had settled over him. He needed this – to know that someone on this Earth loved him unconditionally, exactly the way he was. I took comfort in the fact that if I could not assuage Martin's grief, perhaps our son could.
"Louisa?"
"Yes?"
"You asked me before . . . about his name."
"Yes. Did you have some thoughts?"
"I want him to have my name. He's my son and I want him to know that."
"Another Martin? Hmm . . . we could call him Marty, I suppose, to tell you apart."
"Not Martin. I mean Martin is fine if that is what you want, but I don't have a problem with David or anything else you might choose. But I want him to be an Ellingham."
This was a shock. "I see. I hadn't expected that. I mean, I had just assumed he would be Glasson. He and I should have the same surname – it will make things easier here in the village, when you are back in London and it's just the two of us."
"But that's just it Louisa. I don't know what I'm going to do or where I am going to be, but wherever that is, I don't want anyone, including you or him, to think he's a fatherless child. I am his father. No matter what, I intend to be his father."
"Intentions are all well and good, Martin. But I know what it is like to be abandoned by a parent. My mum left when I was ten. I am determined to spare my son that pain. If you want to be his father, you have to mean it. It is more than just writing cheques and giving him a name. I need to know you aren't going to walk away from the two of us when things get difficult here or more interesting in London." I swallowed hard as I said this.
"Louisa, you're going to be with him always. He's going to know he's your son and that you love him. Here in the village, everyone will know he's your son regardless of what his surname is. I want him to have my name so he will know that he is my son, and that I love him. And so the village knows that too."
There was a plea in his eyes which resonated with me, but before I could formulate a reply, a very strange look came over his face.
"Louisa?"
"Yes?"
"I think he's moved his bowels."
I suppressed my urge to giggle. "Well, Daddy, do you think you're ready to give this parenting thing a go?"
To be continued . . .