Doc Martin and all characters therein are owned by Buffalo Pictures. I own a slightly abnormal brain, an eclectic music collection, an amazing recipe for cheesecake, and entirely too many pairs of shoes.

CHAPTER THREE

'What's the matter, Marty? Just reach in there...'

'No, thank you.'

' It's all right; she won't hurt you.'

'Aunty Joan, I am not putting my hand under that chicken.'

Joan sighed and rolled her eyes, her lips twitching in amusement. This was the first morning Joan had managed to convince Martin to even enter the chicken coop; the erratic flapping of wings and pecking at the ground made him very wary, to say nothing of the smell emanating from the yard. He had finally ventured inside out of sheer curiosity. He knew, at least in theory, that the eggs he ate for breakfast came from the hens. The mechanics of the whole process was still a complete mystery, however. He watched, fascinated, as Aunty Joan reached into nests, under birds, and into hiding places all around the henhouse and emerged with eggs nearly every time. The colors of the shells varied from dark tan to greenish-white. He wondered what made them all different shades...did each hen make her own special color, like a human's fingerprint? He found the chickens to be extremely fascinating.

Not enough to reach his hand underneath their backsides, though. A line had to be drawn somewhere.

It had been almost a week since Martin had arrived at the farm, and so far, the little fellow seemed to be settling in quite nicely. He was a bright little thing and seemed very interested in learning all he could about the workings of the farm. After witnessing the hilarious sight of the boy sitting on his Uncle Phil's lap in the tractor seat- wearing his little suit coat, tie, and well shined shoes-Joan had immediately gone into the village and purchased proper play clothes for Martin. The uncomfortable look on his face after he had donned them made her wonder if he had ever worn anything else but his formal little suit. That was certainly not the only concern she had about his upbringing, either; those first nights, he had wet the bed and woken in a complete panic, begging Joan not to tell his parents what had happened.

'Marty, what happens when you wet the bed at home?' she casually asked him, after changing his bedding for the fourth morning in a row.

'Mummy gets very cross.'

'Does she punish you?'

He hesitated. 'Yes...sometimes she puts me in the cupboard under the stairs and locks the door. Sometimes, she tells Daddy and he whips me when he gets home from work. But I deserve to be punished for being a naughty boy.' He shrugged his shoulders.

Joan's heart nearly broke at his words. 'My dear, you do understand that I am not going to tell your Mum and Dad, nor am I going to punish you for something that you can't even help? Just because you have an accident, that does not mean you are naughty, not at all. On the contrary, you are a very good boy; you have been very helpful with Uncle Phil's plowing, and you helped me loads with supper last evening in the kitchen, didn't you?'

Martin stood a little taller and nodded his head. 'Uncle Phil said I was very good at steering the tractor.'

'That's right, he told me the very same thing. Yes indeed, you are a very good fellow to have around. Now, let's not worry about a wet bed anymore. If it happens, it happens. There are much more important things to think about around here...for instance, I need some help in the barn today. One of the sheep had her lamb last night and she is rejecting it. We need to make sure the baby gets taken care of properly.'

Martin nodded seriously, ready to take on any task that his Aunty Joan deemed important. 'What do you mean "rejected", Aunty Joan?'

'Sometimes with sheep, the mothers have their babies, but don't want to take care of them. They won't let them drink any milk or give them any attention, and sometimes, they kill them,' she replied gently. They both put on their coats and wellies and made their way hurriedly to the barn.

'But why? That's awful, it's the Mummy's job, the lamb can't help being born,' Martin was indignant.

'It's just the way things are sometimes.'

'It's not fair!'

'No it isn't fair, you are right,' Aunty Joan conceded. 'But this lamb is going to be lucky because it will be cared for by us. It will grow up strong and healthy, don't you worry.'

Uncle Phil was in the barn waiting for them, and had prepared a glass bottle full of milk for the lamb. He topped the bottle with a rubber nipple and held it out to Martin.

'There you are, lad, and have a seat there on the straw while I fetch the lamb,' he said to the boy. Martin made himself comfortable on a pile of hay, and Uncle Phil placed the tiny creature in his lap. He hesitated, then moved the bottle toward the lamb's mouth. The baby immediately latched on and began eating noisily. Martin giggled in surprise. 'Look, Aunty Joan! I'm feeding it!' he exclaimed happily. 'Wait...Uncle Phil, which is it, a boy or a girl?'

'She's a lovely little girl. And she certainly does have an appetite!' Phil replied. Martin grinned, feeling very proud of himself. It gave him a nice warm feeling in his chest to be taking care of something that needed him. Holding the bottle tightly with one hand, he rubbed the fingers of the other through the lamb's soft, warm wool. She had nearly drunk all the milk, a good portion of it dribbling down her chin and onto Martin's coat. For once, he didn't much care that his clothes were getting filthy.

Joan watched the scene, burning it into her memory. The irony of the situation was not lost on her, the rejected animal child being cared for by its human counterpart, her rejected nephew. She choked back tears full of anger, sadness, and pity. Martin had only been with them a few days and her maternal feelings for him were nearly overwhelming. She already loved him fiercely, and had immediately felt herself go into protective mode when she thought about how her brother and that horrible...woman were treating him. She and Phil had been trying to conceive a child since their wedding night and had had no luck at all. They both just ached with longing to be parents, while Christopher and Margaret were complete rubbish at it and had no desire for the dear little boy they had produced. Why had God graced them with a child, unwanted? Why had He not given Martin to her and Phil instead? Just as little Marty had said, it wasn't fair. No, it wasn't at all fair, and it made Joan completely heartsick.

Martin's voice brought Joan out of her revelry. 'She should have a proper name, don't you think? What should we call her?' Phil glanced at her, and she raised an eyebrow. She didn't have the heart to tell Martin where most of their sheep ended up: more than likely, in a neighbor's mutton stew. Well, this one would just have to be the exception.

'You may call her whatever you like, my boy,' Uncle Phil replied. 'You are going to be the one taking care of her.'

Martin's face lit up. 'Really?'

'Of course, if you want to, that is.'

'Oh, yes, please!'

'Right then, I'll leave you to it. I must get to planting. Let me know what you come up with, my lad,' Uncle Phil briefly placed his hand on the top of Martin's head, gave Joan a quick kiss, and was on his way. Joan sat down in the straw beside Martin and asked, 'well? Have you got any ideas for a name?'

Martin sat in concentration, his brow wrinkled, absentmindedly petting the animal in his lap. At last, he declared, 'I think I shall call her Dinah.' He looked down at the lamb, chewing his lip. Then he nodded. 'Yes. Her name is Dinah.'

It was all Aunty Joan could do to keep her laughter in check. She had no idea where Marty had come up with the name Dinah, but he was so serious about it, there was no other name it could be. Sometimes little Martin was so solemn and brooding, it was easy to forget he was only five years old. Naming a lamb Dinah was decidedly an age-appropriate thing to do for a small boy, Joan realized with delight. Thank God there was still some child in him yet.

The next morning, for the first time at Aunty Joan and Uncle Phil's farm, Martin woke to find he had been sleeping all night on clean, dry sheets.