What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery
"Khyber Love" and its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabitha Wire Alipphi, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story.
Chapter 2 – New Guinea
I do not know when Louisa joined me in our cramped bedroom, but she was snoring softly when I awoke the next morning to James Henry's grissling. I tended to his nappie and gave him a wash before carrying him to the kitchen – he in his sleepsuit and I in my pyjamas. From experience, I had learned that Louisa required more sleep after an evening with friends.
After making coffee and putting eggs on the boil, I prepared cereal for James, adding the half banana remaining from yesterday's breakfast. He carefully watched my movements and happily gurgled as I walked to his chair with the bowl. Two bites into it, the timer sounded, and I quickly removed the eggs from the pot and rested them into their waiting cups. Taking a swallow of coffee, I returned to James who was eager for his meal. When he was finished, I spread Louisa's old, blue picnic rug on the floor and placed James in the midst of it with a few toys. He was content as I ate my eggs and toast and reconsidered last evening's events.
With any luck, the filming would be minimally disruptive to my surgery schedule as a hectic few weeks awaited me. England's recent change from PCTs to an NHS based primary care scheme allowed me to take on more duties. I now manage the expanded Portwenn Practice, covering 90 square miles. This includes six GPs, community and practice nurses, midwives and staff. Chris Parsons pushed me into the post, sharing my concerns about the younger doctors in Delabole and Polzeath. Numerous additional duties came with the new title, and Dr. McGwethey from St. Kew now saw to my Portwenn patients two afternoons a week. I could then travel to those needing more specialised treatment. It made the practice a bit more interesting and fulfilled the NHS mandate for acute care at home rather than hospital. Once again, Chris knew what I needed more than I did.
I do not regret remaining with Louisa and James in Portwenn. But the new post has re-invigorated me and made by decision to leave the surgical field somewhat more palatable. Still it stung when Robert Southwood occasionally phoned me "only to make certain" that my surgical career was at an end. As Aunt Ruth whispered to me yesterday, "what I did for love," was all too true.
After the washing up, I joined my son on the rug and switched on a brightly-colored music box sent by Louisa's London colleagues. Louisa, too, has no regrets about returning to Portwenn. I could understand why on witnessing James Henry's simple joy hearing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" played repeatedly. Our life was nearly perfect, save for the ouster from our new home at the hands of that idiot, Tom Giddins! A terrible thought occurred to me: would the filming in any way hinder the completion of our water lines. Standing to retrieve my laptop, I would immediately send Giddins a strongly-worded email demanding action.
When I switched on the computer, a flourish of music startled me and caused James to cry out in fear. What the bloody hell was this? Hastily I lowered the volume, and on the screen appeared a deeply-tanned man, his nose reminiscent of a Harris Hawk's beak and his eyes the color of urine from a hypercalcemic patient. Astride a white horse, the man raced across an arid plain, his long, blonde hair swirling in the resulting wind. Then the bold title, "Khyber Love," scrolled across his image. It seemed that Louisa had helped herself to my computer so that she and her friends could watch the insipid TV show soon to invade my village.
"My God, Martin, what are you doing," Louisa laughed as she entered the kitchen. "Having a catch up with Simon Siddiqi are you? He's quite dishy, wouldn't you say?"
"Nothing of the sort. And I'll thank you not to use my business computer for this – rubbish. It's one thing to have our village overrun, but there's no need to frighten James with your school girl attachment to this Simon and the other fools who are mucking about Portwenn."
"Jealous are you Martin? Hmmmm," Louisa teased as she cuddled next to me on the rug and reached for James. "Would you be a dear and make a pot of tea. I'll have a feed with James and then we can chat."
As always, I marveled as Louisa held James to her breast and he cuddled against her, sucking mightily. James was to be weaned at the end of summer term, and Louisa was having difficulty with her decision. I had made my thoughts known to her, but it was her body and her choice. James did as well with milk, but she loved the intimate act of nursing and worried that he would somehow love her less. A needless worry, as I continued to reassure her.
"Would you like breakfast now, Louisa? An egg, cereal? I could make you toast," I offered.
"No, only tea for the moment. Perhaps a Chiocciola fizzy water. Orange if we have it. Head and tummy are a bit queasy. You're right, Martin, I should avoid red wine. But it is so bloody good. I can't imagine what Ruth and Phoebe feel like this morning. I gave them coffee before shooing them off near midnight. I'll phone Ruth in a bit, although I'll see her this afternoon."
"We're not to see Ruth. This is Sunday," I reminded Louisa. Unless I had a medical emergency, the three of us spent the day together. Occasionally we would drive to Bude or Wadebridge, but we mostly stayed in the village, mostly in our home.
"Actually, I will be seeing Ruth. Since she's taken your spot on the school's Board of Governors, she'll attend today's special meeting. I told you about this Martin. It has to do with the filming. The producer wants to stage several scenes in Portwenn Primary. It's meant to be one of Jennifer's schools near the Khyber Pass, but all they need is a chalkboard and an open space. The desks are to be removed, and carpets will cover the floor.
"It is the last scene before Simon leaves Jennifer in Afghanistan and returns to London. We talked about it last night. Oh no, that's right. You were reading to James when I told everyone about the scene. Sorry, then, I do have to be at the school. We're to be paid 1,000 pounds for the filming, and that'll go a long way toward the new boiler. Stu MacKenzie wants to offer up more of the school if it will add to our coffers. I'm concerned about the disruption to classes, but Stu and Ruth think it's a grand idea. "
"Well, what am I to do? Stay here with James and have a catch up with 'Khyber Love?'" A little annoyed, I placed the Italian fizzy water and a beaker of tea at Louisa's side.
"Not a bad idea, Martin. That's all anyone can talk about in the village and most of Cornwall. Your patients will be nattering on about it, and you should be able to join in. You know how you like a good chin wag," she playfully tousled my hair.
"Well I want none of it and will make it abundantly clear that I'll tolerate no nonsense. I can't believe two intelligent women like Aunt Ruth and Dr. Nielsen have allowed themselves to be taken in by this - this spectacle! They should be writing books and not mooning over a blonde pretty boy who's exposed himself to skin cancer and who knows what else by that preposterous tan."
"Letting go your comment that Ruth and Phoebe were the only intelligent women here last night," Louisa again reached for my hair, "it's good for the village. Tourism is our best hope for Portwenn's economy, and the show will help immensely. Elwa Fleming from Visit Cornwall said that summer bookings are phenomenal. I, for one, am pleased that more money will come into the village. Think of how much it will help my students and your patients.
"Phoebe and Ruth can write their books after the hubbub has died down." Louisa added. "They've worked very hard and with difficult people and circumstances. Let them have a laugh, enjoy life a bit. Both are terribly fascinating women and deserve some fun."
I knew, or thought I knew, about Aunt Ruth's life. For whatever reason, she found it acceptable to devote her career as well as her life to the criminally insane at Broadmoor. The doolallies, as she called them, were more appealing to her than marriage or having any sort of family. When I saw her at my grandparent Ellingham's home and then in her small flat after their death, she had always been on edge, anxious to resume work. My father stopped making even the occasional duty call to her when I went on to Oxford. I do not think either of them regretted it. Like Aunt Joan, Ruth was another Ellingham not keen on my father. I was the third.
Until Louisa, I did not know life beyond work could be as enjoyable as the work, itself. She and James Henry had enriched me and ended the misery that is my family's legacy. Aunt Joan had abandoned the pain of being an Ellingham by escaping to Portwenn. It seemed Aunt Ruth was belatedly following her. If the frivolity of 'Khyber Love' and chess with Al Large made her happy, so be it.
Louisa had finished winding James Henry and settled him on the rug for a rest. Placing a hand on my shoulder she lifted herself, moaning: "Oh, I should have stopped at the first glass." I wisely did not comment as Louisa had made her thoughts clear to me on the subject of wine. It was the Maginot Line of our marriage, and I would not breach it. Just as she would not force me into dressing like the slovenly villagers, except on Sundays. After my shower I would don the Henley and jeans that Louisa assured me were "perfectly suitable" for wearing about our home or even our forays outside Portwenn. I had drawn my own Maginot Line at trainers and instead wore Tod slip-ons with extra arch support.
My reverie ended as Louisa began to noisily search through the fridge. "Martin, have you seen the yoghurt? I bought a carton yesterday and can't find it."
I patted James Henry's tummy and took myself to the fridge, easily retrieving the "missing" yoghurt for Louisa. She rewarded me with a kiss on my shoulder and the comment: "I knew you were good for something beyond – well – you know."
Even now, a bit embarrassed by Louisa's innuendo, I tried to change the subject: "Uhm, yes, there is that. Tell me about Dr. Nielsen," I dithered.
Louisa's face brightened as she mixed yoghurt with cereal in her morning ritual. It was clear that she was taken in by this Phoebe person. "Oh, Martin, she and Ruth had us enthralled by their stories of Broadmoor. Ruth has never talked so much. The people they treated were all over the newspapers and their crimes were heinous. But the two of them really got to the heart of their patients' problems. Many of them simply had low mental capacity or physical problems that could have been cured if anyone cared enough about them.
"I know, Martin, I know. You'll say I have far too much sympathy for criminals, but not everyone at Broadmoor was innately bad as you might argue. There were some horrendous, evil people Ruth and Phoebe could not help, and they needed to be separated from society. But I do worry about some of my quiet boys who don't fit in with the other children. I want Phoebe to have a chat with a few of them while she's in Portwenn. She originally trained as a child psychiatrist in America, and offered some good insights last night."
"America? I thought she was English. Or has she only lived her so long that she's adopted the accent?" She certainly sounded British to me.
"No, Phoebe's father was an American doctor who worked around the world for a religious medical service. Her mum was a Scottish lay missionary who met and married her dad in Africa. Namibia was it? When Phoebe left for university in 1960, her parents and younger sister lived in Little Guinea - sorry, I mean New Guinea. Her father managed a clinic for those afflicted with Kuru."
"Kuru?" I was incredulous. "Phoebe's father treated Kuru?"
"Yes. It sounds simply awful. The Southern Fore people, especially women, would eat the brains of dead relatives they were preparing for burial. Sometimes the fat layers from the dead were given to children and the elderly as a nutrition aid," Louisa shuddered. "Phoebe said the Fore called it the 'laughing sickness,' as they would burst into laughter while suffering tremors from the disease. Kuru is thought to be extinct now because the last known patients died a few years ago. However, it has an indeterminate incubation period – maybe as much as 40 years."
This was, indeed, incredible. During my med school rota at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, we had learned about Kuru. It was the only known epidemic of human prion disease and killed thousands in New Guinea. Research related to Kuru provided insights into Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease in humans and Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy in cattle. More commonly called mad cow disease, it devastated the British beef industry in the 1990s and led to extensive agricultural reforms. The vigilance of the North Cornwall Water Company over water contaminated by cow manure was one result. Now I understood why Louisa found Dr. Nielsen fascinating, and I urged her to continue.
"Alright then, Martin," Louisa looked a bit surprised as I rarely wanted to learn more than needed about anyone. "Phoebe matriculated at Warwick University and then traveled to the States for medical school. British medical schools were very reluctant to accept women, but she was offered a place at a university in Minnesota. You'll recall that Ruth fought to attend medical school in England and was only admitted thanks to the wrath of your Grandmother Ellingham. Ruth said last night that she and your grandfather came to the point of divorce over the matter. Grandmother Ellingham had been desperate to become a doctor, but her family refused to allow her even nursing college. She was not about to let the same fate befall her daughter, particularly since Joan had been so thwarted by her father than she had severed family ties and moved to Portwenn."
I was speechless, as this bit of my family history was completely unknown to me. Joan never mentioned it; nor, of course, had Ruth. I had never given a thought to a time when women were not admitted to medical school. But Edith Montgomery had always prattled on about an obligation to her "foremothers" to excel at St. Mary's.
"Shall I go on Martin? You look a bit dazed."
"No, I mean, yes," I stammered. "Yes, please go on."
"After Phoebe finished medical school and residency in Minnesota, she returned to London where her parents now lived in retirement. It was difficult for any psychiatrist, let alone a woman, to set up a practice in England. She and Ruth worked for the courts and were deliberately referred the dodgiest cases. Eventually, both were hired at Broadmoor and stayed. Ruth may be reluctant to write now, but both she and Phoebe wrote extensively about their Broadmoor patients. They are modest about their accomplishments, but each described the other's work as groundbreaking. They are quite well-known in the field of criminal psychiatry. Everyone is eager for Ruth's book to be completed."
I nodded my head in agreement. My conversation with Louisa left me eager not only for Ruth's book but also an early opportunity to learn more about these two fascinating women: Phoebe Nielsen and the more-mysterious-than-ever, Ruth Ellingham.
Continued. . . .
Author's note: The music from "Khyber Love," which startled Martin and James Henry, is called "Fanfare for Fenella." It was written by the show's brilliant composer, Nicol Stowen.