The Consultation
Chapter 2
Martin sits up in bed, tired after another restless night. The clock reads five am. He sighs and reaches for the manila envelope on the bedside table, opens it and spreads the contents on his lap. The figures in the expense spreadsheet he gave Louisa before the baby was born seem in order. He starts to slide them back into the envelope, hesitates. The day Louisa agreed to move to London with him, she placed this very envelope on his desk. 'I won't need this," she said and bent over to kiss him gently on the lips. He hadn't kissed her back; they were in his consulting room after all. Later, in the kitchen, he wanted to touch and kiss her but she had been unyielding, cold and distant, so he hadn't.
He sighs, throws off the duvet, and scatters the loose sheets over the empty side of the bed. The cold floor numbs his bare feet as he walks to the window; the morning sky is a medley of oranges, pinks and yellow.
'There won't be sun rises like these in London,' he thinks. His thoughts jump to the appointment he made with the village solicitor for later in the week. Dr. Borrows, the new GP, will sign the lease for the surgery; the rental income will go to Louisa for the care of their son. He has no idea how she'll react to his offer of financial support. With a sick feeling, he remembers the last row they had before she moved out of the surgery.
"Louisa, your mother is late again."
"She should be here any minute now."
"It's the same every morning. I can't be caring for James and seeing patients. Have you given any thought to hiring a proper nanny for him, as we discussed?"
"You told me do it Martin, it wasn't a discussion. Anyhow, we should be grateful for the free childcare. We won't have that in London."
"We won't need childcare in London. You'll be home with him, at least for the first four to five years"
At that point, Louisa had stood still, her eyes bore into his. "You don't imagine that I plan on being a kept woman?" she said derisively.
Her comment shocked him. He was happy to provide for both her and the baby and felt a certain satisfaction in being able to do so. His income as a GP and soon vascular surgeon is generous, his needs minimal. And he wants his son loved and cared for by his mother, not some incompetent child minder. He knows that neither he nor Louisa had been properly cared for as children. Why repeat the mistakes of their neglectful parents? He wanted to tell her this, but the moment passed before he could.
He places his hands on the cold window pane; hands able to perform the delicate task of grafting two arteries together to make a heart whole again. If he can do that, why can't he find a way to tell Louisa how he feels? He shivers and rubs his bare arms. It doesn't matter now. Louisa made it abundantly clear she doesn't want him in her life. Slowly, he makes a tidy pile of the papers strewn about the bed, places them on the night table, and heads to the washroom to get dressed.
Ruth is woken by the sound of bleating sheep outside her bed room window. Damn, not again. She hastily pulls on her skirt and blouse and runs out to the farm yard, Wellies squishing through the muck. The sheep are grazing contently in the vegetable patch but startle as Ruth waves at them, shooing them up the hill. She sees a gap in the fence a few yards from the gate. Al mended it yesterday but the little buggers had been busy tearing it apart overnight. That's going to need replacing, and soon. She sighs. Joan couldn't keep up the place, especially at the end. Ruth is dismayed at how derelict the farm has become and the large debts Joan accumulated in the last years of her life.
A wave of grief catches her unaware. Bits of Joan are everywhere; her favorite cup on the pantry shelf, the smell of her soap, her coat hanging by the door. They saw each other only at Christmas and over summer holidays but, regardless, had a strong bond born of shared experiences. Joan was different from her siblings, a free spirit, not interested in academics or the intellectual sparing that was the currency in the Ellingham household. She eloped at age 17 with Phil Norton, a Portwenn farmers' son, to her parents embarrassment. They were aided and abetted by their eccentric Uncle Dick Ellingham, who bought the land that Ruth stands on with money of dubious provenance and happily exiled himself from the Ellingham clan, who preferred London to the back waters of Cornwall. Joan and Phil lived and farmed here, a help to Uncle Dick in his declining years. He left the farm to Joan and her brother Christopher but not to Ruth. She smiles at the memory of her young self, fresh out of psychiatric training, telling her ornery Uncle Dick that he suffered from schizotypal personality disorder and that she can help him. He had promptly disinherited her.
Martin came to the farm over summer holidays, and Joan took him under her wing, loved him as her own. Ruth watched from her perch in London, happy to let Joan play mother to their beleaguered nephew, never having been comfortable around children. She remembers the last conversation she had with Joan, on the telephone, a few weeks before she died. She had gone on and on about Martin and the school teacher, a topic that Ruth found tiresome.
"I'm really worried about Marty"
"You always worry about Martin, Joan. What has he done now?"
He's running away, that's what he's doing. That baby is to be born any day now and he's leaving Louisa to cope on her own. I try to talk sense into him but he won't listen."
"Is Louisa the school teacher?" asks Ruth, disinterested.
"Have you listened to anything I've said for the last three months?"
"He's a grown man, Joan. If he doesn't want the woman and child in his life, there is absolutely nothing you can say or do to make him change his mind. Stay out of it. You know how he is. He won't thank you for interfering."
"Well, I'm obviously the only family who cares enough to interfere, as you call it."
They hung up, Joan irritated, Ruth thoughtful. She wasn't surprised by Martin's decision to leave the pregnant school teacher. His father's philandering, Joan's affair with the sailor, and her own lack of meaningful relationships, had set a poor example for their nephew. Not easy for the girl, she imagined, but she would have to cope.
At the funeral, Ruth watched Louisa stand next to her nephew, one hand in his, other arm cradling their infant son. She felt an uncharacteristic tug of familial duty. Maybe it's time for her to take an interest in Martin, now that Joan is gone. She visits the surgery, asks how he feels about London, Louisa, and the child; he's invariably non committal. But little does he know that his grief for Joan and the pain of losing Louisa reside in his eyes, there for anyone who cares to see. It will be good for him to get away from Portwenn although she wonders if he is ready to resume performing surgery. She asked him about the haemophobia, he tells her it's under control. In her experience, deep seated phobias don't go away; they can be kept in check but tend to rear their ugly heads at the most importune moment.
She feels a soft tap on her leg. Joan's terrier, Buddy, looks up at her, his expression quizzical. "Hello there," she says, and bends down to pat his head. At first, she hadn't cared for the little dog, but his good natured tenacity at getting into her good graces had won the day. Curiously, Buddy has taken a liking to Martin, who despises dogs. Ruth smiles down at the subject of her nephew's ire, and says "Come on. Let's get you some breakfast." Ruth closes the gate and walks down the hill, Buddy at her heels. Now this is all hers, she thinks ruefully, surveys the chicken coop with its pealing paint, leaky farm house roof, and the vegetable patch decimated by the errant sheep.
Buddy starts to bark as Al comes up the driveway on his scooter. It's a good thing she hired him as farm manger; being a city dweller she doesn't know the front from the back end of a chicken. And she has come to like Al; he's good company and plays an excellent game of chess. Ruth waves to him as she walks towards the farm house, looking forward to a nice cup of tea. But first, she reaches into the sideboard drawer and takes out an envelope filled with the eight hundred pounds she withdrew from her savings account yesterday. Ruth hesitates for a moment, wonders if it's wise to hand all this money to Al. But she doesn't see any other way to purchase the fencing material. The locals won't accept checks or credit from an outsider and she is definitely an outsider.
Ruth steps outside and hears a grind and sputter coming from the tractor parked in the driveway. Al sits in the driver's seat and throws up his hands in defeat. He looks at Ruth, his expression furrowed.
She walks up and asks, "Have you flooded the carburetor? I have no idea what it means but it's what people tell me when my car fails to start."
"You really need to think about getting this tractor repaired and the bowzer can't hold its water."
Ruth frowns. "Should I call the vet?"
"No, the water bowzer." He points to the plastic tank strapped to the back of the tractor. Al says he can repair the bowzer but the tractor will need to be replaced sooner then later.
"I don't image they come cheap."
"Maybe two or three grand second hand."
"Let's deal with one thing at a time. For the fencing in the top field, you needed eight hundred pounds."
She hands him the envelope. He watches her walk away, thoughtful.
The afternoon light filters through the surgery kitchen skylight as Morwenna waits for the kettle to boil. She hears Doc Martin at the reception desk, rattling about with the computer and rolls her eyes. 'He's checking up on me again,' she thinks and pours a generous dollop of milk in her tea. No wonder Louisa left him. Who would want to spend the rest of their lives with that annoying old tosser? She hears the front door open, picks up her cup and quickly makes her way to the reception. No need to get him riled up; he hates checking in patients. She sees Mrs. Dingley limp into the waiting room and hears the Doc snap, "See the receptionist!" He stalks back to the consulting room and leaves her with the crazy cat lady of Portwenn. Thanks Doc.
"I want to see the doctor. Come about my knee." She sits on the edge of Morwenna's desk, pulls up her trouser leg and overturns a cup filled with pens. Morwenna scoops them up and unceremoniously tells Mrs. Dingley to go sit down; she'll see what she can do. After a few minutes, Mrs. Dingley is brusquely ushered in the consulting room by Dr Ellingham and told to sit on the examining coach.
"It's my knee. I think it's getting worse." Martin had looked at it after she fell at Large's restaurant yesterday and instructed her to ice and rest it.
He examines her knee, feels a small effusion below the patella, but nothing else. Obviously, she had not followed his instructions. Instead, she likely was busy pestering people for donations for that blasted cattery she runs. 'Filthy animal's cats,' he thinks; they carry disease, fleas and smell bad. He will not let James Henry have a pet. Well, he might consider a fish.
He walks to his desk, sits and starts to write. "This is prescription for an anti inflammatory medication. Take it as directed and rest your leg for a few days."
"I can't do that. Who's going to feed my cats?"
"Get someone to help you"
"There's no money for that. I can barely feed them as it is."
Martin snarls. "Fine. If cats are more important then your health, then don't come complaining to me when your leg gets worse."
The elderly Mrs. Dingley gingerly gets off the examination coach and hobbles over to Martin. She leans over his shoulder and her spectacles slip off the bridge of her nose and fall on the desk. Martin startles, picks up them up and notices they are held together by tape.
"You wouldn't fall so much if you had new spectacles."
She starts to speak but Martin is not listening. Aunt Joan was the same age as this woman, just as obstinate, and struggled with money at the end of her life. Sadness settles in his chest, his eyes burn. He rips the prescription from the pad and yells for Morwenna to escort the patient out of his consulting room.
To be continued…..
