"Can I get you something to drink?" Doc asked after a moment, still towering over me.

"I'll need something stronger than bottled water," I replied, figuring he probably wouldn't have it.

"Will whiskey do?"

Damn. "Yeah. Can you make it a double?"

"Wait here."

He returned a few minutes later, a tumbler filled with amber liquid in hand. I eagerly took it from him and gulped down a few sips. This time, instead of sitting in his chair, he perched against the front of his desk.

"Better?" he asked, looking down at me.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed for my reaction. It wasn't the Doc's fault that I might have cancer. Blaming him wasn't going to help. I took another sip, longer and deeper this time, letting the liquid slide down my throat.

"Good stuff, Doc."

"I'm glad you approve."

"Doc, what's gonna happen to me?"

"You're going to have the surgery. If all goes well, you won't need more than close follow up for a few years."

"What does that mean?"

"Frequent exams and scans. No chemotherapy or radiation."

I thought back over my recent exams with the two docs and decided that didn't sound like much fun, though it probably beat the alternative. "And if all doesn't go well, as you say, then what?"

"Al, don't get ahead of yourself. Dr. Johri and I both believe that, if it is cancer, we've caught it at an early stage."

"Either way, I won't be able to have sex or kids, will I?"

"Yes, you will."

I glanced up at those words. He sounded so certain and that alone was reassuring. "But how . . .?"

"After the surgery you'll be perfectly able to engage in intercourse."

"With one bollock?"

"The surgery will have no effect on your ability to achieve erection or produce sperm."

"But I won't have as many . . . sperm, will I?" I couldn't believe I was actually having this conversation, even with a doctor. But I needed to know what I was facing and the Doc was the one person I trusted to explain it honestly and without getting all emotional, like I had.

"In most cases, the sperm from the remaining testicle are more than sufficient to . . . procreate. Most men who have orchiectomy – surgery to remove a testicle – subsequently father children and I know many who have done so."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I don't do that."

That was true, I thought to myself.

"Al, some men feel more comfortable storing sperm before surgery, just to be sure. You can discuss that with Dr. Johri, if you like."

I gulped down the rest of the whiskey. Even though the Doc had explained things clearly and they didn't sound as bad as the stuff I'd read, it was still a lot to digest.

"More?" Doc asked, nodding at my empty glass.

"Yeah."

A moment later, he returned with the bottle and, after refilling my glass, resumed his position on the front edge of his desk.

"Doc, can I ask you something?" I said after swilling several more gulps of the whiskey.

He nodded. "Go ahead."

"Will you be there when they cut on me?"

"I'll come see you in the hospital, yes."

"I mean during the operation. Will you be there in the room?"

"As I told you, Dr. Johri will be performing the surgery."

"But you'll be there, in the room when he's . . . doing it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"This type of surgery is performed by a specialist. Dr. Johri is excellent. I wouldn't have recommended him otherwise."

I shrugged. "He's okay; I trust him. But I still want you there."

I watched the Doc blow out a breath. "Al, I don't think—"

"Doc, I'm going to let them cut off one of my balls." I felt like a damn girl fighting back the tears. What the hell would the Doc think of me now? "All I'm asking," I continued, my voice cracking, "is for you to be in the room. I want to go to sleep knowing that someone who . . . who gives a shit . . . will be there to make sure it all goes okay. Is that too fucking much to ask?"

Bert looked at Al in astonishment. "What you sayin', boy?" He was sitting in the restaurant kitchen looking over the receipts for the day and they looked fine, mighty fine. But Al had just said something he didn't quite catch, and he didn't like the sound of it.

"I'm sick, dad," Al said.

Bert looked over at him, where he was slumped in the doorway. "Like some sort of cold, or something? There's a lot of that goin' around you know."

"No. Dad. I got to have surgery."

"Surgery, boy? This isn't some sort of trick, is it? I know I'm kinda gullible, but, if this is…"

"Dad!" Al shouted and hit the table with his fists. "Shut it, would you?"

Bert was in shock. "Now, boy – listen…"

Al shouted at the top of his lungs. "Dad! NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME! Just shut your BLOODY mouth for a minute and LET ME TALK!"

This wasn't like Al. He never spoke this way. "Boy, what's wrong? Is it something I done?"

Just then Pauline stumbled into the room, sleep sliding off her. She was dressed in the clothes she'd worn to work, and must have fallen asleep on the sofa, while we cleaned up the kitchen.

"Boys! Can't you keep it down, I was asleep!" she started, but when she saw the look on their faces she stopped. She flew to Al and flung her arms around him. He gave her the oddest look - sort of a grim smile - then kissed her forehead.

The pencil fell from Bert's hand and his vision got a little blurry, along with a squeezing in his chest. "Al?"

"It's like this, dad." Al started. "I got a lump in my left nut. And the Doc has examined and it and this other doc, as well, over in Wadebridge. And it's got to come out."

Bert felt his shoulders drop and his face fall. A lump in his bollocks? Must be a joke. But the grim set of his son's mouth and the sad expression of Pauline told him it was no joke. He looked around the room wildly. "You're saying it's something bad, then."

"What? You think I'm doing this cause it's fookin' fun?" Al swore. "Shit, dad! Yes, it's bad. It's real bad."

"So what is it? What the Doc say it is?"

Pauline pushed her face into Al's shoulder a moment. She turned her ginger-haired freckled-face and there was a single tear running down her pretty cheek. Bert decided he'd remember that tear as long as he lived.

"Bert…" she started but her voice trailed away.

He shook his head in denial. "No! No…"

Al breathed deeply. "They need to take it out, look at it, do studies and such, but it's probably… cancer." He slung an arm around his girl and squeezed her.

Pauline added, "Bert, I, uh, found it. The lump, thing… and I was the one who made Doc Martin talk to Al about it. Things went pretty damn quick from there," she finished sadly.

Bert couldn't catch a breath and as he looked at the two of them his heart broke. Dear God no! He'd lost Al's mum, raised the boy all by himself, and now would he lose Al too? Then it was his turn to cry.

"Boy…" He stood and hurried to hug Al who put his arms around his old dad and girl both.

The three of them just stood there for a long while.

"Oh, god," Bert finally said.

"Yeah. I've said that a few times in the last days." Al replied in his typical no nonsense way.

He looked his son right in the eyes. "Ain't there some other test, or drug, or x-ray they can do without cutting…"

Al beat on Bert's back with his fist. "No! If it is cancer there's a real good chance the operation will get rid of it. It'll be gone, dad!" Al went on. "It's got to be done."

All those years when Bert had to be both mum and dad to Al taught him a few things. And one of 'em was knowin' that there are some things you can't change, not for a whole world full of wishes. He thought too about when Al's mom died and he'd had to get real busy in a hurry being a single parent, with a baby son. No delay. That had put steel in his spine. Bert breathed deeply. "Alright boy. When they gonna cut on you?" Those words him hurt to spit them out.

Al gulped. "Thursday morning, dad. Ten o'clock."

Bert's arms felt like lead and they swung straight down and his legs started to buckle. He backed away and stumbled to the counter, turned and found himself peering out the window at the dark harbor. There was a whole lot of bad things out there. But what about…"What about…you know?" He looked back to Al over his shoulder. "Kids maybe? What about that?"

Al sighed, probably thinking he'd never have this sort of conversation with his father. "Doc Martin says things - work out. Usually."

Bert turned from the window and tears ran down his chubby cheeks, but he tried to smile. "Ok, then. We'll just have to go with the flow, eh?" He bit his lip and tried not to sob - not for himself - but for Al and Paul.

Al stood there with Pauline wrapped around him. "Yeah," he said sadly.

Bert wiped his face, reached under the counter, lifted up a bottle of whiskey and set it on top with three glasses next to it. "You two - join me?"

"Damn straight," Al answered.

Paul said yes as well.

And without a word they drank the good stuff. Then they all had a real good cry.