Tides
Tides go in and go out. Driven by the orbit of the Moon, the spinning of the earth and even gravity's pull from the sun and other planets, the waters of the Earth slosh back and forth, or so I have read. I'm looking at PC Penhale assist some poor sod to save his car from the rising tide. I've never parked my Lexus on the tidal flat, too much muck and salt, but some visitors to Portwenn do so. I'm watching the drama play out.
A breakdown truck has attached a tow and as the cable draws taut, the mud releases the car, as Penhale waves his arms in unnecessary directional moves. The car is saved and the tourist, a German, leaps gratefully on the breakdown driver and forces wads of money on him. The car starts, none the worse for wear or water and drives off, just a story for the grandkids, leaving a sticky trail of mud as it goes up the hill.
Time and tides wait for no one and Louisa is late. I check my watch. As we agreed it's 7:30, and I don't see her. Joe Penhale departs in the patrol rover, waving happily. Another Volvo saved from the sea. I wonder if he's keeping a tally? Three have been lost so far this season to the rising tide.
Thirteen lunar months in a year, roughly equal to the human female reproductive cycle. There must have been some very ancient marine organism that based it's reproduction on the rising and falling of the maximum tides, occurring every lunar month, or 28 days. Millennia later, it has become the cycle for humans. Curious.
The lifesavers are washing their boat after an afternoon of drills. Pauline dashed off at 5 when the pager buzzed, no doubt glad to escape the surgery, but probably disappointed it was only a drill. If it had been an actual emergency they'd have rung me as well. I've reviewed the boat's emergency kit and it all looks very efficient and the crew are all well trained. Good lads and lassies. Last week they saved a fisherman off Mouls Rocks.
No Louisa yet. Tourists, the locals call them grockles without favor, wander about but the town is growing quiet. Ah, there is Louisa by the Aquarium. She waves and I go to her.
"Martin!" she takes my arm. "Sorry I'm late. Got tied up with paperwork, you know." She wears black trousers and that green sweater top. Passing tourists and fisherman look her over, and so do I.
"Yes. Hello."
"Something wrong? Oh, you're irritated about my lateness."
"No." I try to change the subject. "To dinner?"
"Yes, but not that hungry. Had a late lunch."
"Oh, well I had no lunch."
Louisa takes my arm. "Well, let's get you something to eat. Take away?"
"Alright." She takes me to the fish and chips place. We buy dinner and walk up the hill to the surgery. The light is fading as we walk.
"Martin, look up." The moon is high overhead and a quarter full.
"Yes, I was watching a tourist get his car towed off the tidal flat because of the tide. All because of that." I point to the ball of rock overhead.
"Martin, you are such a romantic." She shakes her head. "But I do try to change you."
"You think I need changing?"
She smiles as we reach the surgery. "Perhaps a bit of polishing. Take off some of your rough edges."
I take a bottle of wine from under the kitchen counter and plop the fish and chips on the table. Louisa uncorks the wine and pours some for herself. I fill a glass with tap water. "Sure that stuff's alright?" she asks. "You do remember the water scare when you arrived."
"How can I forget? That bloody Caroline getting me on the radio."
"Martin, she did not put words into your mouth. You did."
"Louisa, let's not argue." I lay out plates, cutlery, and linens.
"Are we arguing?"
I frown at her. "Not yet."
"Planning one for later?"
"No." Louisa has the ability to sooth or to drive me mad. I put my ill humour as hunger.
I tuck in as Louisa nibbles on her chips. A proper Englishman would eat fish and chips with beer and mushy peas. Beer I can do without and mushy peas have always seemed like a waste to me. Louisa would drink wine for breakfast. The meal doesn't last long, I eat like a wolf tonight but she just picks at things.
We clear away the scraps and Louisa takes the remnants of her wine to the sofa. "Come out here and talk to me."
"Alright." I push the bits into the bin, stack the dishes for the dishwasher later and go out. She's reclined on the couch, but folds her legs up, so she can put them in my lap as I sit down. "Here I am. What?"
She tips her head side to side and gives me a long stare. "Martin…" she pauses. "Massage my feet, they hurt."
I have known Louisa Glasson long enough to know that when she starts like this, something is brewing. "Go on." I take her left foot in my hands and start kneading it.
She stretches her head back and then clears her throat. "I was thinking… about us and… kids."
"Kids?"
She laughs and takes strands of her long brown hair in her left hand and twists them. "Kids – children. You know. They start out as babies, grow up, go to school; drive their parents and teachers mad in the process."
"Yes. I know what children are. You deal with them every day and so do I, at least one or two."
"Well, I was thinking that we need to talk about them." The hair twisting continues, only faster. She bites her lips and asks, "What about our children?"
"Oh, yes. Well, if you want to, we could have them."
"If I want to?" she replies, and then shouts. "If I want to?" She strikes my arm holding her foot. "Martin! Damn it."
"Ow! That hurt!"
"Oh, so you can feel something?" She sniffles and I see a tear bead up and roll down her cheek.
I know that I have done something very bad. "Louisa, let me get a tissue," I begin and try to rise, but she stops me.
"Just stay right there." She clamps down with her legs and I am as trapped as a prisoner in stocks. She wipes her face with a hand, but more tears well up. "I mean… don't you want to be a father?"
I gulp thinking of my smarmy father. I am silent for a few seconds until I can get my thoughts under control. "Louisa, I'm not sure… I…" I think of my cold mother. What a pair.
"Martin, I know that you had a tough life, tougher than mine. My mother was no gem. But we can start over. Martin, we can be real parents. Have a real family."
A real family. I saw one today. The father, Alf – farmer, Josephine – house wife and mum, and their daughter Mary. The little girl had strep, the father had an ear infection and rhinitis, and the mum was tired out. I treated all three. Antibiotics for girl and da, vitamins and a chat up about coming into town for ice cream, shopping, eat at a pub.
Josephine's eyes brightened as she took Alf's hand. He shyly squeezed it, then embarrassed, let the hand drop. I even suggested that one of the local girls might be able to sit with Mary for an afternoon or evening while they went out. Just a picnic or a meal, I suggested.
PC Mylow had taught me that in Portwenn, there is often the right way and the smart way. They left smiling carrying their prescriptions and little Mary jingling the pocket change I had pulled from the desk drawer for ice cream. She was four years old. There went a bit of smart medicine out the door. I felt positively good until Pauline started yelling about how it was getting late, and she had somewhere to go, and I still had three patients waiting.
"Yes. I know, Louisa. We could do it. Something to think about it." I say and smile at her. "I won't say no, if that's what you're asking."
Her face brightens. Louisa pulls her legs off my lap and pulls them to her chest. "I needed to know. But it won't be until we're ready. Right?"
"And no public school. I'll not have any child of mine, uh ours, packed off like baggage."
"Alright." She sniffles some more, but the tears look happier.
"Louisa, there will be a right time."
"Yes, Martin. I had to know."
I stand, grasp a tissue from a dispenser and hand it to her. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, and hands it back to me.
"Thank you," I say as I grimace at the feel of the soggy tissue.
"Oh, Martin. If you can't handle a little snot, what would you do with a baby?"
"I'd read the manual or hand it to its mother."
She laughs and her voice fills the room. Louisa follows me to the kitchen sink and rubs my back as I wash her nasal discharge from my hands.
"Come on, let's go to town. I think I want ice cream," she tells me.
"It's getting late, and I have an early call out on the moor, quite a few miles away. Do we have time?"
She looks at her watch. "It's only nine-ish. But I can do without." I expect her to leave, but she takes my hand and kisses me. "I have a better idea."
Upstairs she pushes me onto the bed and pulls off my tie. I start to speak but she puts her hand on my lips.
For some reason I think of the Volvo caught by the sea. Tides can be treacherous. I am unsure whether this tide is rising to drown us or a falling one to sweep us away.