The Visitor

By Portwenn Hydra

Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.

Chapter Two

"Lodgers? Louisa and James aren't lodgers, Mum, they're . . . ."

"Oh, Martin, I certainly hope you haven't taken in vagabonds who are paying you nothing. You're father was right. You've never had any financial nous."

Sighing she continued: "If I'm not to have a lie down, bring me tea. Biscuits and a bit of cheese as well. The flight from London was ghastly and the drive across the moors very unsettling. That village chap nattered on so. Tea will do, Martin."

With only a nod, he retreated to the kitchen. Each niggling thought from minutes ago was forgotten as Martin tried to comprehend what it meant for his mother to be in Port Wenn, here at the surgery, his home with Louisa and James. Louisa! He must phone her. He could not expose her and James to his mother's mean tongue and scathing judgments.

He quickly pressed Louisa's number on his mobile. If she were to be home at half six, she should be near Aunt Ruth's farm by now. He will have her wait there until he can sort out Mum. Get her to the Port Wenn Hotel, even the pub if need be, but certainly not with them.

Bugger! No response from Louisa's phone, not even the answerphone. It could be she had a late start from Truro and was driving through a black spot on the moor. Or she may have switched off her mobile allowing James to sleep. Poor little tot had been teething, and Louisa may be driving about, letting the car's motion lull him to sleep.

Louisa was also tired of late and had exhibited flu-like symptoms in the last few weeks. Nothing serious, only a bit under the weather. He would insist she either allow him to check her blood count or see the Wadebridge GP. Between James and her demanding post as head teacher, his mother was the last thing Louisa needed.

In the kitchen he switched on the kettle, and removed cheese and apples from the fridge. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he returned to the reception area and took up the mail. No need to engage his mother in more conversation than necessary. Having tea with her would be quite enough.

He put aside the bills and letters and carefully opened the square ivory envelope. Removing a stiff, printed card, he had to read the contents twice. Really, now, how could they have possibly done this? Unbelievable! Before he could absorb this news, the kettle whistled and he hurried to the kitchen.

Warming the pot first, he added tea and hot water, allowing it to steep. Several issues now presented themselves. If Mum truly were indigent, he would have to support her. Certainly, he did not want her with Louisa and James. It had taken them so long to create a life together, and Mum's poisonous tongue would undo it all in minutes. Louisa would not stand for it, particularly if it concerned James. No, Mum and Louisa were not to meet. Nothing good would come of it.

This morning's call from Matthew Thatcher, his London banker, reminded Martin of his strained finances. The funds from selling the Kensington flat had not been enough to pay for Dad's share of Havenhurst Farm. Martin had taken a note for 20,000 pounds, and it was due in three months. The money he put aside to retire the note had been used to pay Joan's debt on the farm, so that it might pass unencumbered to Aunt Ruth.

Then there was the matter of his two year lease for the London flat. The estate agent had only now found a tenant, and he had been obligated to pay the monthly rent of 2,500 pounds for the last five months. Potential tenants were put off by the "Arctic White"colour he selected, and a tenant was secured only after he spent another 2,000 pounds having it re-painted in "Apricot Whimsy," the colour Louisa originally suggested.

A private insurance plan for James added to his costs and limited his savings for the larger home they hoped to purchase soon. He also paid the household expenses, including the note for the surgery held by the estate of the late Jim Sims.

It seemed a small sum at the time, but his father needed the 700 pounds Martin remitted to him each month to supplement his small Navy pension. This was the only money he had after losing his retirement savings in the golf club fiasco. Proceeds from Joan's farm paid off the last of Dad's debts, including the mortgage on the Algarve villa Mum unwisely sold.

How much would his mother want for this "small place in a warm location?" He could not imagine getting by on less than 1,500 pounds a month even in Portugal. She certainly could not stay in Port Wenn or with Ruth. He would not inflict her on either the village or his aunt.

If he had taken the post at Imperial, his income would have been more than enough to live well in London and support Mum and Dad. His GP salary whilst good, was not sufficient to provide for two parents living in two places as well as Louisa and James. Should he re-consider the post at Imperial?

Louisa would object, but he did not want her to continue working because his Mum needed money. Half of her salary was going to the nanny for James, and the other half was used for things she and James needed. The rent from White Rose Cottage covered the mortgage and maintenance but little else. Louisa wanted her father to live in the cottage when released from prison. Now that may not be possible.

Of course, he had considerable funds from his time as a surgeon in London, but they were being held for his own retirement. He hesitated tapping into the investments as they would be needed in a short 20 years to cover his family's living expenses. James would still be in university, and if there were another child, he would likely be in secondary school.

For the first time in his life, Martin felt financially pinched with the obvious need to provide for his mother. She truly had no one else to turn to, including his father, who had made one foolish decision after another.

Martin's worrisome thoughts were interrupted as Mum called: "Martin, the tea. Surely, you haven't forgotten."

Checking the tea, it had steeped to a dark color. This would never do for Mummy. Before diluting the pot, he tried Louisa again. Ah, good, he received the answerphone and left a message: "Uh, Louisa, it's me. Martin. I'd rather you not return home. Nothing serious. Please either go to Aunt Ruth's or the Fenns and phone me when you've arrived. I'll explain everything."

Pouring out half the tea, he filled the pot with the remaining water from the kettle and placed it on a tray with a jug of milk and cups. He quickly sliced an apple, and arranged it on a plate with the cheese and biscuits. As he lifted the tray, his mother appeared in the kitchen.

"Well that certainly took long enough," she complained. "I should think you'd have an easy time in the kitchen doing for yourself these many years. It's not as if you had a wife to prepare your meals. It's a pity you can't manage something as simple as tea on your own."

She took a chair at the table and commanded: "Milk, no sugar, Martin."

His hand shook slightly as he poured tea into a cup and added milk. Handing it to her, he said: "I've brought an apple with the cheese and biscuits, Mummy."

Sneering, she said: "Humble food for my son, the humble GP in the humble backwater of Port Wenn. Good Lord, I'm only thankful my family never saw what's become of you. Your father's family has more than its share of people like you. My family would be horrified."

Swallowing her belittling comments, he began: "Mum, this Fernando De Sota."

"DaSilva, Martin. Armando DaSilva. What of him?"

"Um, are you certain he invested the money for you. Were there any papers he gave you? If there were investments, they might have some value when the Portuguese economy stabilizes in a few years. They might bring you something. A bit of a return."

"No, I have nothing. If you must know, it was a private investment. To a friend of Armando's. Something to do with the East Timorese guerillas. You know East Timor was a Portuguese colony, and there is a bit of an issue there with the rebels. It may be that the money was used for munitions, something of that sort. I'm not quite certain. I only understood that I was to double my investment. That, of course, did not happen. Now, Martin, as I said, I will need a remittance from you."

"Have you talked with Dad? Is there anything he can do for you?"

"I've just seen your father in London. He has nothing but that tatty flat in Chelsea and a tiny Navy pension."

"Dad has a flat in Chelsea? I thought he was living at his club."

Laughing bitterly, Mum said: "Yes, you wouldn't know of the flat. It's where he kept his women, his mistresses. Elsa, the last one, died a year or so ago. Had a devil of a time getting the flat from her daughter. She insisted your father had given it to Elsa for – well – services rendered. Of course, she could produce nothing showing ownership, so Christopher is living there. Lovely square facing a park, but the flat needs redecorating. Of course, the woman had horrid taste."

Horrid taste, indeed! His father had a mistress – in fact, mistresses – and Mum was concerned only with decorating. More to the point, any flat in Chelsea had to be worth at least 500,000 pounds.

Responding in kind, he asked: "If Dad owns the flat, could he sell it? Perhaps raise some money for the two of you?"

"No, he wants to stay there. It seems he and the daughter now get on well, and she lives nearby with her family. It's unbelieveable to me, but Christopher said he enjoys her children. Probably the closest he'll ever have to grandchildren."

Martin was speechless on hearing his mother's revelation of the mistress and her daughter, but she seemed not to care a wit. As if this news were not troublesome enough, Martin saw a figure moving past the kitchen window carrying something heavy. Oh, no, he could not have this. He moved quickly to the kitchen door, ready to step outside.

To be continued. . . .