Disclaimer: Doc Martin is the property of Buffalo Pictures. I own nothing except my overactive imagination

The Homecoming

Chapter 1

A short story written to fill a quiet afternoon, describing Louisa's thoughts on her return from London, and maybe giving a hint of how she'd hoped things might have worked out instead of the way they actually do.

As I walk back down the hill from Martin's house towards the pub, the control that I had managed to hold onto in front of him weakens somewhat, as I choke back the hot tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks. I'm so angry, so hurt, as my thoughts swirl around in my head.

'You bloody bastard Martin Ellingham! I can't believe you've already moved on, got someone else in your life! You obviously weren't that upset when we broke up. My God, you really haven't wasted much time have you, the bed sheets have hardly had a chance to cool down. It really is the last thing I expected after all the years it took me to get anywhere with you.'

Then I have a sudden horrid thought.

'Oh God, I hope they do have a spare room at the pub.'

I haven't actually rung first to book one in advance just in case Martin had offered…

What on earth had I been thinking? There was no way on earth that Martin would want me to stay, and of course he reacted just as I'd known he would in reality. I'd kidded myself if I'd expected him to be any different. I'd had this stupid idea that maybe we could still be friends, that he would be surprised by my news of course, but that he would offer his support, even if we were no longer together. We hadn't argued or fallen out after all, we had mutually decided to call off our wedding. So I'd thought that Martin might offer me his spare room to stay in until I got myself sorted out. Things would have been so much simpler if I could have come back to White Rose Cottage, but of course when I'd rented my cottage out before going to London, I hadn't known that our act of love had been so ...productive.

I can see again now the look of sheer horror on his face as his eyes had fallen on my very obvious six months worth of pregnancy bump. All he could manage to stutter was,

"You're pregnant!"

Well, full marks to him for his powers of observation. It didn't take years of medical training to work that one out.

And then I see a woman smugly sitting there, slim, elegantly attired in a suit, completely at home with her feet under his kitchen table. The penny drops. No wonder Martin's not exactly thrilled to see me - he's got a new girlfriend. Once I realise what's going on, I just have to get away, I'm not going to intrude on his cosy little love nest.

So I leave, having done the decent thing and informed him that I am back, and that I am pregnant with his child. Duty done, nothing more to say.

Martin follows after me - but just to clarify the facts, that's all.

"What do you want? Do you want to get married?" Not really a proposal so much as a question to find out if that's what I expect from him. Oh I think not, as I tell him in no uncertain terms.

"You're certain it's ours?" he asks next, with maybe a hopeful glint in his eye that I would confess to some other lover who had got me in this condition.

I soon put him right about that too. The absolute bloody cheek of the man, what did he think? That I'd jumped into bed with the first man I'd met in London, as I would have had to have done to be six months pregnant now? I resist the overwhelming urge to slap his face at that point, it takes a supreme effort. But with his next comment, I think if I hadn't been holding my suitcase and bag – which he didn't even offer to help with - I would have slapped him.

"You know it's a bit late for an abortion."

Just as I'd expected. Practically his first thought was that our child should have been aborted, got rid of, conveniently disposed of. I was so right not to have told him when I first found out that I was pregnant. No, I feel vindicated now, I don't need to feel guilty for keeping him in the dark for so long.

Of course I can't help myself, I just have to ask,

"Whose she?" nodding my head towards his kitchen.

"Edith," he informs me coolly. He doesn't even look remotely embarrassed about her at all.

So that was the name of the red headed bitch calmly sitting there. She didn't mean it at all just now when she'd offered to go, and Martin certainly hadn't taken her up on her offer so that he could talk to me. Bastard.

"Why aren't you in London?" is his next oh so friendly question.

He certainly knows how to make a girl feel welcome. And of course he completely understands why the school had found my 'condition' to be so repugnant – because that's exactly how he feels. It's written all over his face.

"It's going to be fine Martin. Not your problem." I tell him as I walk away – and he lets me go. So I have all the answers I need now. I will be a single mother with no involvement from Martin. So be it

xXx

As I walk into the pub, I pray that it will be a quiet evening in there, with not too many people to have to put a brave face on for. But it is not to be.

It's packed. It seems as if half the village, including Pauline and Al are there. And all eyes seemed fixated on my bump - Mrs Tishell's eyes are on stalks as she looks daggers at me - actually she looks as if she's going to have a heart attack.

But I heave a huge sigh of relief when John says he has a room for me, my next stop would have been to try to find a B and B with a vacancy, or failing that a hotel, which would have been even pricier than the pub was going to be. I think nervously about my savings, and how long they will last if I don't get the job at the school that I've come back for. It might only be part time, but it's something. I'll figure the rest out as I go along.

Then Pauline starts with her questions.

"Does he know?"

"If you mean Martin, yes he does, he's fine about it, we're still good friends."

I lie to her through gritted teeth. That's what I'd hoped for before I'd discovered he has new girlfriend, but I'm going to be civilised about it all in front of everyone.

"Didn't he ask you to stay?"

"I wouldn't actually want to, Pauline"

Not now that other bloody woman was there, I most certainly wouldn't. But at that thought I find myself losing the brave front I'm presenting to everyone, so I say that I want to go and lie down, and then I make my escape to my room. At least John is a gentleman and takes my case and carries it up to my room for me.

Once I'm alone, I collapse onto the bed and allow myself the luxury of a damn good cry.

xXx

Thank goodness I'd done my research before my job interview at the school. Mr. Strain is as weird as they come, but I suppose I had left them in the lurch when I'd headed for London so abruptly, and maybe he had been the best they could come up with at short notice.

He tries to say I won't be suitable for the job because I'm pregnant, but I know my rights, and I can see the look of panic when I quote the legal position to him.

So I get the job, and start straight away – and I love it. This is where I belong, and I know instantly that I've made the right decision to come back, whatever the situation with Martin. I can deal with all the villagers whispering and giggling behind my back - after all I've had years of practice thanks to my Dad and his dodgy dealings. About the only one to actually welcome me back so far is Bert. Dear Bert, he's always been quite protective towards me, bless him.

xXx

What planet is Martin from? So he comes to the school at the end of the day. Fine, I think, he's come to see me now he's had time to think about things, maybe he wants us to start again, sort things out amicably, ask about his child.

But no. He seeks out Mr. Strain, talking to him about missed appointments and his constipation, of all things. I wrinkle my nose up in disgust and leave them to it, but I can't resist shooting Martin an incredulous look. This is his child, his baby I'm carrying, isn't he in the least bit curious about it?

Finally he comes into the classroom where I'm tidying up, and asks if I'm alright, have I got everything I need, says at least I've got a job now.

"He's weird though," I tell him, pointing in the direction of Mr. Strain.

Of course Martin just assumes I'm miffed that I'm not the Head Mistress anymore, he never really listens does he? I tell him that I'm concerned, that Mr. Strain is not normal.

Martin stares at me.

"I'll tell you what's not normal. You having this baby without telling me. Very high handed of you Louisa," he declares.

"Oh is it?"

"Yes it is."

At this point I see red. High handed? Does he think this is an easy situation for me?

"Do you imagine I didn't want to discuss it? In London, on my own, in a bedsit, 37 years old, single, pregnant? Do you think I didn't want to talk to the father, work things out? But what would you have said Martin, hm? Have you considered an abortion? I'll back you up whatever you decide."

I mock his pompous voice as I tell him a few home truths. He'd have tried to pressure me to have an abortion if he'd known in the early stages, so what was the point in contacting him, when I knew for certain that I could never even consider aborting our baby? And I know I was right about this by what he said to me yesterday on my return.

"I would have backed you up, absolutely. But keeping it a secret is just feminist point scoring, like you staying at the pub," he retorts. What the hell is he banging on about? Where else am I supposed to go? I really don't have any choice about staying at the pub.

"I didn't choose to stay at the pub. My house is rented out to Mr. Creepy," I point out to him through clenched teeth.

"Nobody made you do it, and you get money for it."

"So?"

"So, that pays for the room at the pub!" Martin tells me triumphantly, as if this proves his point.

Why on earth are we squabbling about the income from my cottage? I take a deep breath as I massage my forehead to try to ease the headache that I now feel coming on, no doubt brought on by tension. This is not going well.

Martin stops for a minute too, maybe realising that this is not a constructive conversation.

"We should arrange to get your notes sent down," is his next input.

"M…my doctor's notes?" I query. He surely doesn't think…

"Yes, it's pretty straight forward," he starts to explain.

"They've been sent down. I'm with the hospital in Truro." I inform him.

He looks puzzled.

"What?"

"You didn't imagine you'd be my doctor did you? That would be really odd Martin," I tell him.

He actually looks a bit hurt at that, but what did he expect? That we could ignore everything else, that he could just carry on being my doctor, and pretend this pregnancy is nothing to do with him? Well, yes actually, I can see how that would work in his mind; he always could put on his professional front when it suited, detach himself from any personal involvement.

He takes a minute or two to assimilate this information. Then he seems to pull himself together, and the cold, detached mask now descends over his face.

"Your choice," he says abruptly. Then bizarrely, he holds out his hand for me to shake, as if we're business partners who have concluded their business. Well, I suppose we are in a way.

Then he turns on his heel and marches out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

I take a deep breath and swallow. 'I don't need him. I'm going to be just fine on my own,' I tell myself, as I finish clearing up in the classroom. But a little tiny voice at the back of my mind keeps nagging me 'But you still love him'.

I ignore the voice - it's irrelevant. Martin has moved on and is with someone else now. He's not interested. That ship has sailed.