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

I've always thought that Joan must have had a rather colourful past, so I thought it would be rather fun to have a go at writing her story. Told from her point of view, it's written using her customary forthright and no nonsense humorous style.

So – this is my story of Joan Norton, nee Ellingham, of how she ended up living in Cornwall at Havenhurst Farm and becoming the broad minded woman that she did. It is based loosely around information gleaned from all four series, but it does not contain any spoilers to do with the fifth series.

A Liberated Woman

Chapter 1

I was born in London and spent the early years of my life there, brought up by my parents George and Elizabeth Ellingham, along with my brother Christopher, who was several years older than me. My father was a top surgeon; my mother was from a very well connected family, and had never had a paid job in her life, she had simply concentrated on being a wife and then a mother. My brother took after our father and was tall and blonde; I took after our mother and was small and brunette.

Christopher was the apple of their eye, and he could do no wrong. I was a mere girl, of no importance or relevance. His education was given much consideration, the best schools picked out, and of course he went up to Oxford to study medicine, to follow in father's illustrious footsteps.

I was packed off to the nearest local private girls school to ensure that I had a good, basic education, sufficient enough to enable me to become a good wife for some suitable young man when the time came. This was 1950's post war Britain, when everyone was struggling to maintain the old order, not realising that everything would soon be changing in the new era that would be swept in with the arrival of the sixties.

When I expressed a desire to follow in my brother's footsteps to study medicine, my father laughed at the very suggestion, even though I was equally as academic as Christopher.

"What on earth would be the point of sending you to university Joan? Total waste of time, you just concentrate on preparing to be a good wife and mother, and get those foolish ideas out of your head,"

That's what my father told me in no uncertain terms. Without his support, I knew I had no hope of ever going to university, so very resentfully I had to give up on those dreams. But it meant that I had no idea of what I do with myself once my schooling came to an end. I went on various escorted trips abroad in Europe which I thoroughly enjoyed, and then my mother sent me on a high class cookery course that she had deemed a suitable way for me to spend my time. Much to my surprise, I really enjoyed it and found that I was rather good at cooking. My mother also tried introducing me to several young men that she considered to be suitable potential suitors, but they bored me rigid, and seemed so easily shocked by my forthright manner of telling things how they really were, of calling a spade a spade. They seemed to think that well brought up young ladies were supposed to simper and agree with everything they said, and not actually have opinions of their own. I couldn't think of anything worse than having to spend time with any of these wet young men, and so I decided that I would come up with something, anything else once I had given the subject my full attention over the summer.

Tradition had always been that Christopher and I spent our summers with my father's older brother Richard and his wife Demelza at Havenhurst Farm in Cornwall – they had no children of their own and so always happily welcomed us. This meant that mother and father could have their summer break touring the south of France, to the Italian Lakes or wherever the latest fad was for, unencumbered by children.

Christopher and I both loved our summers spent in Cornwall when we were small children, but as we got older, Christopher began to hate it, and protested that he didn't want to go, that it was boring, that there was nothing to do. I, on the other hand, loved it, and always threw myself into helping out with everything on the farm. Uncle Dick was very different to his brother Christopher. He was a man of the land who had married a local Cornish girl and settled down happily into farming, and it would seem that I had inherited that same love of the land.

So at the very beginning of that summer in June 1961, when I had just turned twenty, I went down to Cornwall on my own, Christopher now being far too busy with his medical studies to come with me. Within a very short space of time, I found that I really loved it there and I began to envisage a life for myself in Cornwall. I hated all the falseness of London life, where my tendency to speak my mind just didn't sit well in polite circles.

Uncle Dick had recently been widowed, and as he was getting older and finding it harder to cope on his own with the farm, he'd hired a live-in farm hand, a local young man called Philip Norton. Uncle Dick explained to me soon after I arrived that Phil's father had owned one of the neighbouring farms, but had recently passed away suddenly after suffering a heart attack and that his farm had had to be sold to pay off large debts that he'd accumulated when he'd taken out several ill advised loans to buy some expensive new machinery for the farm.

"I was bloody lucky to be get a man like Phil, he really should be running his own place rather than just being the hired help here, I can't pay him anything like his true worth. This job must be just a stop gap for him, so I'm not sure how long he'll stick around. He's probably got a little bit of money left over from the sale of his dad's farm, so I imagine he's looking for another place that he could afford to buy, maybe just a small one, to start up his own place again." Uncle Dick told me.

Phil was a few years older than me, and he seemed to be a rather serious young man of few words, but it was soon apparent to me that he was hard working, honest and decent. I could see him looking at me with some amusement when I first arrived and declared my intention of helping around the farm as well as taking on the domestic chores such as cooking and cleaning around the house. I was just a posh young slip of a girl come down from town in his eyes. Of course, that made me all the more determined to show him what I was made of, to work hard and to pull my weight.

I was horrified when I first arrived by the state of the kitchen. When Aunt Demelza had been alive, she'd always kept a well stocked kitchen, but now it was in a pretty sorry neglected state.

"Would you mind if I gave the kitchen a good going over, and got in some fresh supplies, so that I can do some proper cooking?" I offered to my Uncle.

"You go right ahead my dear. Do whatever you like; consider the kitchen your domain. I'll give you some housekeeping allowance if you like, if you're happy to take on the cooking while you're here," he told me, clearly delighted by my proposal. I didn't offer to do it because it conformed to the traditional view of female duties - the simple truth of the matter was that I enjoyed cooking, and so that was why I was happy to do it - not because it was expected of me as a girl.

Phil gave me a lift in the old pick up truck from the farm to the village to get all the necessary supplies. I hadn't yet learnt to drive, and wouldn't have been able to fit everything into the basket on the front of the old bike that I usually used to cycle down to the village.

"How long are you down here in Cornwall for then?" Phil enquired as we drove along.

"I don't really know to be honest. I usually go back to London around the beginning of September, but I'm not exactly sure what my plans are this year. Anyway, how about you, how long are you planning to stay on here? Any plans for your own place at all?" I queried.

"Like you, I'm not really sure, depends if anything suitable comes up I suppose. So, what are you going to be cooking then? Fancy dishes that you learnt on that cookery course in London you told us about?" he asked.

"Nothing too fancy, I'm planning to adapt the recipes to cater for more basic Cornish tastes," I told him.

"Oh I see, you think we're a bit common and basic down here then, do you eh?" he teased me.

"As common as muck – and that's why I love it here so much," I teased back.

As a live-in farm hand Phil's meals were included. From the state of the kitchen, it was clear that neither Phil nor Uncle Dick were any kind of a decent cook, so to come in from a hard days work to find a tasty supper on the table would no doubt be extremely welcome to the men.

I think Phil thought Christmas had come twice when he found home baked scones, and cakes and all sorts of other delicious goodies on offer when he came in for his tea breaks. And before long, he and Uncle Dick were sat ready and waiting impatiently at the table for their evening meal, once they had sampled a few of the dishes that I lovingly produced. It was all very satisfying for me to be so welcomed and appreciated by the two men, having been at rather a loose end since I'd left school. And I had the variety of getting out on the farm, where I tended the chickens, started my own vegetable garden and herb patch and helped out on all sorts of jobs where I could. Phil would even come and ask for my help sometimes now, especially as Uncle Dick was becoming frailer, and I had proved myself to be another useful pair of hands around the place, not afraid to muck in with anything. I could see that my standing had risen somewhat in Phil's eyes, as he realised that I was not just a silly young girl after all.

Inevitably, I found myself drawn to him. Having worked on a farm all his life, Phil was a very fit and active man, and I found myself curious about his body, about the rather impressive muscles that I could see rippling through his shirt as he worked. He was a stocky, well built man, of average height, but as I wasn't very tall he towered over me. He had the bluest eyes I thought I had ever seen, thick, sandy blonde hair, and a scattering of golden freckles across his nose that increased threefold during the course of the summer. He also had the most wonderful deep voice with a strong Cornish accent that I loved. Having had very little contact with the opposite sex thus far, I suppose my curiosity was only natural now that I was thrown into close proximity with such a prime male specimen.

And I think it fair to say that he was pretty curious about me too, from the number of stolen sideways glances I caught him throwing my way, and naturally I was flattered by the attention. I was not what anyone would have considered an outstanding beauty, but I was pretty enough, with a rather curvy, buxom figure and a generous bosom. I started leaving an extra button undone on my shirt, and then leaning over in front of Phil in a seemingly innocent way, to see the look on his face as he struggled not to stare, savouring the power that I was beginning to learn that I had over men. I also enjoyed the admiring glances from the other young men in the village too, having always been virtually ignored at home, and being made to feel worthless compared to my golden brother.

But however much I may have tried to entice Phil, he was always a perfect gentleman, and he never made a move to touch me in any way, although we often spent many hours together in the course of the day. An easy companionship grew up between us as we worked together. We made jokes and laughed as we took our tea breaks and meals together and found we shared a very similar sense of humour. He soon realised that I wasn't easily shocked, and was not averse to using the occasional expletive myself when things did not go to plan.

One day, I looked up to see him laughing as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, when he heard me swearing.

"Buggeration! That stupid bloody cooker!" I cursed, as I removed a batch of cakes from the oven that had burnt at the edges. I hadn't quite got used to Uncle Dick's range cooker yet – it didn't matter too much for things like casseroles, but was a bit more critical for things sponge cakes.

"I'm sure they'll taste just fine, I'll come and sample one later if you like, just to make sure," he offered with a wink. Phil enjoyed his food and always gratefully accepted any of my offerings. I remembered the old adage of 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach'.

Another day, he watched me wheeling out the old bike that used to belong to Aunt Demelza. It was a glorious summer's day, and I was wearing shorts and a little sleeveless blouse. I noticed him staring at me, but I wasn't really sure what he was thinking, whether he liked what he saw or not, but I hoped he did anyway.

"I was just going to cycle into the village to get some ingredients for a new recipe I thought I'd try out tonight, but the ruddy tyre of this old thing is flat again, I think it must have a puncture," I explained, as I kicked at the wheel in frustration.

"Come here, let me take a look at it for you," he offered. He was brilliant with anything mechanical, he could fix up old machinery to work as good as new, and was always taking things apart and fixing them. He'd even managed to get Uncle Dick's old tractor running again so that he could use it around the place, no mean feat as it had always been a cantankerous piece of machinery at the best of times. Why his father had thought it necessary to foolishly fork out a fortune for so much expensive new machinery when Phil was clearly more than capable of keeping their exisiting ones going was a mystery to me, and must have been so frustrating for him, I imagined.

I watched as he sorted out the old bike for me. He was wearing his usual jeans and a short sleeved checked shirt, which showed off his powerful arms, which I noticed were covered in golden hairs, and I found myself day dreaming about what it would feel like to brush my fingers along those strong arms, and how it would feel to be held in them. To my horror, I realised that he had turned round and caught me staring at him with a silly dreamy look on my face – worse still Uncle Dick had come out to see what the problem with the bike was and had seen the look too.

"Right well, is it sorted now? Because I need to get to the shops before it gets too late," I said hastily, to cover my embarrassment.

"Yep, good as new now," Phil replied, as he handed the bike to me. I quickly got on, the cool breeze cooling my rather flushed cheeks as I rode off.

When the end of the summer came in September and I would normally have returned to London, I told my parents that I was staying on and would not be returning yet. Although my mother protested that I would never meet any suitable young men down in Cornwall, she didn't press too hard for my return, and anyway I could argue truthfully that Uncle Dick really needed my help as he was becoming much frailer. My mother assumed that my help entailed just the domestic chores such cooking and housework. I knew that she would have been horrified to see how I mucked in on all the other jobs around the farm, as it was not at all ladylike to do so, in her opinion.

Phil made no comment to me about my staying on, but he happily accepted my help around the farm as if it was the natural order of things now, and we settled into a comfortable, if very demanding and tiring routine. I'd never been so happy before, I felt as if I'd found my place in life and I never wanted to leave. Uncle Dick was more than happy for me to stay on and run the kitchen as my own, which I really enjoyed. I also loved how the jobs on the farm naturally succeeded each other as the seasons changed, it all seemed part of the natural cycle of life. The views of the beautiful Cornish countryside and coastline from the farm were breathtaking, and I couldn't ever imagine a better place on earth to live.

As Christmas approached that year, there was the usual dance at the village hall, which was considered the social event of the year. I desperately wanted Phil to ask me to go with him, and kept dropping hints, but Phil was very shy about things like that. He could talk to me easily enough about everyday practical things on the farm, jobs that we did together, that kind of thing, but anything personal, he simply clammed up and went red.

In the end, in my usual upfront way, I decided that it was no good beating around the bush, I could be waiting till the cows came home before Phil would ever get round to asking me.

"Philip Norton, are you going to ask me to the village dance or not?" I boldly asked him outright, looking him straight in the eye one day, as we sat down together for our elevenses in the kitchen. There was a plate of Eccles cakes that I'd baked earlier that morning, and Phil had already eaten two of them as they were his favourites.

He immediately blushed and looked down at the table.

"I err…don't think…I don't usually…I'm not very…" he stuttered.

"What's that? You're not going? Oh well in that case I'll go with Jim Trellisk, he asked me to go with him when I saw him in the village last week," I told him truthfully. There was a distinct shortage of young women around for all the young farmers and helpers in the area.

"No! That is I mean…" Phil looked up from the table, horrified. Of course I had no intention of going with Jim Trellisk, but Phil wasn't to know that, and it was about time he made a move I'd decided. I was pretty certain he was interested in me, just as I was in him, but he really needed a kick up the backside to get him to act, it seemed.

"You don't have a problem with me going to the dance with Jim do you? Especially as you're not planning on going," I pointed out.

"Can't dance. So not much point in me going is there?" Phil mumbled, clearly rather embarrassed by this confession.

"I could show you if you like. We could have a few practice lessons beforehand," I offered. This could be rather fun, I thought to myself. A jolly good excuse to get up close and personal. Clearly Phil thought the same, because his face lit up as he smiled back at me, though he was still blushing furiously.

"Would you do that for me? But I think I've probably got two left feet, I'll warn you now," he told me.

Uncle Dick watched on with some amusement. He was a canny old boy who said very little, could be gruff and blunt in the standard Ellingham manner, but actually had a heart of gold, I'd realised. The death of his wife had knocked him for six though, and the fight seemed to have gone out of him, he'd lost interest in life, and mostly just left Phil and me to get on with things now.

"There's the gramophone in the front parlour with a few records you could use if you've a mind to. Demelza used to like to listen to them sometimes, it would be good to hear them played again," Uncle Dick now offered helpfully.

"If you're sure you don't mind, that would be great, wouldn't it Phil?" I looked at him for his agreement.

"I'm not sure as I'll be any good, but I don't suppose it can hurt to give it a try," he mumbled back, but with a little smile on his face as he looked over at me.

So that evening, under the watchful eye of Uncle Dick, I showed Phil the basic steps of the waltz, which was all he would ever really need for somewhere like the local village dance. None of the latest dance crazes had reached this neck of the woods. I put his hand on my waist, put my hand up on his shoulder, and then took his other hand in mine. I saw him gulp nervously as we attempted to waltz round, once Uncle Dick had set the old 78 record going.

"One, two, three, one two three," I instructed Phil, "That's it, just step round the room to the beat of the music."

Uncle Dick laughed out loud for the first time since he'd lost his wife, as he watched poor Phil stumbling around the room, not in time with the music whatsoever. There was no doubt about it, he did have two left feet, not helped by the fact that I think he was rather overwhelmed by being in such close proximity to a member of the opposite sex.

In the end we collapsed together in a heap on the settee next to Uncle Dick, shrieking with laughter when our feet became entangled for the umpteenth time.

"Best night's entertainment I've had in years," Uncle Dick pronounced, as he wiped away tears of laughter.

"See, I told you Joan, I can't dance to save me life can I? I'll be the laughing stock of the village," Phil told me ruefully, once we'd caught our breath.

"Oh no one will mind or even notice, it's hardly the same as a London society event here in the village is it?" I told him.

Truthfully I suspected most of the young men there wouldn't have a clue about dancing anyway. All they really wanted was the opportunity to get close to a girl, any girl would do, but preferably one that was under forty, unattached and still had most of her own teeth - anything else was a bonus as far as they were concerned. Chances were few and far between for this kind of contact between the sexes in rural Cornwall, even though it was now the beginning of the swinging sixties.

In the end Phil did get us tickets for the dance, I suspected mainly because he didn't want me to go with anyone else, rather than any keenness to show off his dancing skills.

To be continued.