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 Seven

"What is this all about?" I asked Louisa, still not sure what I was seeing on the paper she had placed in my hands, not ready to believe it even though it was there in black and white.

She sighed and twisted her serviette in her hands, with a small smile. "I'd better start at the beginning. Last week – Wednesday I think it was - I had a telephone call up at the school from a solicitor in Truro asking if I was the Louisa Glasson who was Terry Glasson's daughter. When I told him I was, he asked me to come in to his office to meet with him."

She stopped and took a sip of water, followed by a deep breath. "Since then, I've been terrified finding out what this was all about. Calls from solicitors about Dad have a history of being bad news, so I've been stewing about this since the call came in."

"Louisa. Why didn't you say? You could have told me you were worried." I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling surprisingly disappointed she hadn't felt she could confide in me.

She shook her head. "Martin, you and my dad don't exactly have a great history, and I was not at all sure what I would find out. I wanted a chance to process it first myself."

"But this – this doesn't look like it is a problem with your father . . ."

"No. When James and I arrived, the solicitor – Mr. Carson is his name – told me that his firm was handling the estate of an elderly gentleman on St. Mary's in the Scilly Isles who died in December. Apparently his Will, which was drawn up almost thirty years ago, left his estate to Louisa Catherine Glasson, daughter of Terry Glasson of Portwenn, Cornwall."

Good Lord! This is the kind of thing that happens in books but not in real life. I was intrigued. "I see. Who was he? Do you know him?"

"His name was Angus Fletcher and honestly I have never heard of him before."

"What did this solicitor tell you? Do you know what he left you?"

"Well as you can see from the letter they gave me today, apparently nearly all his estate was left to me, to be held in some kind of a trust until I reach 40 or get married, at which time it all comes to me outright. I thought it was sweet, some old mate of Dad's remembering me, and that there might be £100 or something. I nearly fell on the floor when they told me there was a property - a cottage on St. Mary's near the lighthouse - plus an estimated £700,000 in cash."

"My God! That's quite an inheritance."

"Yes, yes it is. I haven't quite adjusted to the news. And I really feel I need to get to the bottom of this, get in touch with Dad and find out who this Angus Fletcher was and why he would do this. I don't know if I can bring myself to accept it without knowing what is behind it."

"You had a letter from him – your father that is. It's in my desk drawer. I was looking at the post when Mum arrived and I just stuck it in there for safekeeping."

Before she could respond, we heard James Henry start to whimper over the baby monitor.

"Oi – I'd better go and look after him – best not to let him get worked up and start bawling or he'll wake your mum." She was up and headed towards the stairs in a flash.

"Right. I'll just put the dishes in the dishwasher." I rose and started clearing up.

She looked over her shoulder. "Can you do me a favor and get the nappy bag out of the car? I forgot to bring it in and I realize now that all the nappies in the house are in the room where your mother is sleeping."

"Right. I'll bring it up in just a minute."

She gave me a brilliant smile before heading up to comfort James, and I thought again how lucky my son was to have her for his mother.

After loading the dishwasher, I took the car keys and went in search of the nappy bag. It was sitting on the front passenger seat of the car. I picked it up and was about to lock up the car and return to the house when I saw something in the back seat. Thinking Louisa must have done some shopping and left the parcels behind in the car, I opened the rear door to bring them inside. I found a black garment bag with several clothes hangers sticking out of the top and a clear plastic bag holding a pair of women's shoes.

As I took these things back to the house, I peered more carefully at the shoes. These were definitely not Louisa's usual style of footwear. They were red satin and had tall, thin heels that must have been nearly five inches high. I couldn't imagine how anyone could walk in them, and I really couldn't fathom why Louisa would have acquired them. More puzzling was the fact that they had clearly been worn – the soles had wear and there was a tiny scuff on the inside of one heel. I gulped at the thought of Louisa wearing them – while the physician in me knew they would be absolutely terrible for her feet, the man in me could imagine only too well how her legs and bottom would look if she did put them on.

After squelching that thought, along with the unwelcome thought that she had worn them for someone else's benefit, I reached the hopefully more plausible conclusion that they must belong to someone else. Maybe one of the other teachers or another friend had left them in the car or had asked Louisa to pass them along to someone else. .

As I ascended the stairs, I thought again about Mum and her situation and her outrageous behavior today. I had felt so powerful when I told her to leave. I hated the fact that, despite my finally having found the strength to stand up to her and oppose her nastiness, she was still here under my roof. I knew it was only going to get harder to evict her once she settled in, and my mind was whirring as various scenarios involving her departure played out in my imagination. This was one day I cursed my medical training – if I had been any other beleaguered son I could have just called an ambulance when she complained of chest pains and been done with it.

When I reached our bedroom, I found Louisa sitting on the bed, feeding James. While he was mostly weaned, he still wanted the breast at bedtime and Louisa was more than willing to indulge him in this as she enjoyed the closeness and knew it would be coming to an end soon enough. I always found it the most beautiful scene imaginable and tonight was no exception.

I handed her the nappy bag and set the other items on the bed. "What's all this clobber that was in the car? I brought it in, just in case you needed it."

She raised James to her shoulder to burp him. "Oh, I stopped at the costume shop in Truro while I was up there to hire our fancy dress for the Parsons' anniversary party. It's coming up in two weeks."

"Er, yes, I know, the invitation came in the mail today. But how did you know?"

"Oh come on, Martin. We've known about it for months. It is all they can talk about. Vivian gave me the complete blow-by-blow at the christening party and again at Chris's birthday dinner."

"Well I am not going. You know I don't like parties. And I despise fancy dress. I can't believe they would do this. It's not . . . dignified."

She laughed. "That's the whole point, Martin. Not being dignified. And we have to go. They are your oldest friends and it's their twentieth anniversary so it is a big deal."

"Well we don't have to dress up. We could just wear our regular clothes."

"Not me. I chose something very special to wear."

"Is that what these are for?" I asked, holding up the bag with the mysterious shoes.

"Yes, aren't they something? Just the perfect finishing touch for my costume." She was rocking James slowly in her arms as he drifted off to sleep. "When I get him settled, I'll try the whole outfit on for you if you like."

"Just what exactly did you get?" I asked, wondering what type of fancy-dress called for shoes like this.

"Martin." She sounded exasperated. "It's a Vicars and Tarts party. What did you think I would get? I got one vicar's costume and one tart's costume. And before you ask which is which, I don't think you have any plans to wear red satin pants and fishnet hose so the vicar is for you."

I was mortified at the thought. "Louisa! You can't possibly mean to . . I mean . . . what will people say? You'll be much more comfortable in your regular clothes and it will be more seemly."

"Martin, I can't think of anything more depressing than going to a Vicars and Tarts party dressed in the clothes of a middle-aged primary school teacher!"

"But . . ."

"No buts. You should be happy. All I got for you was a shirt with a Roman collar and a fake mustache. You can wear your own suit and shoes. No cassocks or friar's robes or monk's tonsures, I promise."

"Well . . ."

"Here – you take James and I will try my costume on so you can see for yourself." She gathered the garment bag and the shoes and disappeared towards the bathroom. There was a twinkle in her eyes and her cheeks were pinker than they had been earlier. Either she was blushing or she felt much better.

I hoped her peakedness could be all chalked up to worry about the call from the solicitor. Still, I would feel much better if she had a complete physical examination, preferably performed by me but if not, then by Tom Bates over at the Wadebridge surgery. I would tackle that topic at breakfast.

I looked down at the baby now sleeping in my arms. The encounter with my mother had strengthened my resolve not to follow in my own parents' footsteps. I hoped I was not genetically predisposed to be a crap father, almost as fervently as I hoped James was not genetically destined for mitral valve prolapsed. I stroked his cheek and watched his chest rise and fall as he slept. It was almost instinct to count his respirations and put my fingertips on the pulse point in his wrist to count his heart rate. Both were perfectly normal, but first thing in the morning we'd get down to business with a complete cardiac exam.

I laid him on the bed and fumbled in the bag for a fresh nappy and his beloved cuddly bunny. I could hear Louisa humming in the lavatory. I hoped that was a good sign. I made a quick job of changing my son and tucking him into the travel cot for the night while I waited for his mother. I felt proud that I managed to do this without waking him up. I gingerly placed his bunny within his reach and just watched him breathe for a moment.

I had just sat back down on the bed to remove my shoes when I heard the lavatory door open. Around the doorway first came one shapely leg encased in some kind of black mesh, perched on top of one of the red satin stiletto-heeled shoes. My mouth went dry at the sight.

This was soon followed by Louisa's pert bottom, clad in a very brief red satin skirt with black ruffles puffing it up so her red satin knickers were visible beneath. Red satin garters snaked down her creamy thighs making a dramatic contrast with her tights. She then stood up, her back to me so I could see that her middle was completely bare and on top she wore some kind of cropped black top with tiny puffed sleeves over which was laced a short red satin waistcoat.

When she turned to face me, my jaw dropped. She was ravishing. Her breasts were pushed up somehow to nearly spill out of the top, and the skirt was slung low enough that her navel was exposed. Any baby weight she still carried, she was carrying in exactly the right places as she was curved where a woman should be curved but her belly, on display for anyone who cared to look, was flat and toned. And her legs. My God, those shoes made her legs look like they went on forever!

It took me a moment to realize I hadn't even looked at her face. I blushed to the tips of my ears realizing how I had been ogling her.

"So?" she asked, coyly. "Does this qualify as Tart-like?" Her voice was low in an effort not to wake the sleeping baby, but it only made her comment seem more intimate.

I could hardly speak. I resorted to my usual comment on her appearance, the wholly inadequate response "very nice." I hoped she noticed my appreciative glances as well.

She crossed the room and sat down beside me, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me soundly.

"Louisa. We can't . . . the baby . . . what about Mum . . .?"

"Shush, Martin," she said, effectively quieting me by capturing my mouth with her own. Her kiss was insistent and my lips responded even as my head protested that we shouldn't do this.

I leaned back against the headboard and pulled her onto my lap. All thoughts of James and Mum and money troubles and mitral valves and mysterious inheritances flew right out of my head as I focused on her soft lips, her sweet breath, the way her fingers caressed my hair, the way her satin-clad bottom felt beneath my hands.

I glanced at the door as she pulled back and looked up at me, her arms clasped around my neck.

"Martin?"

I swallowed, still not sure if I could go through with what she seemed to have in mind, what with my son sleeping beside me and my mother ensconced in the next room. "Yes, Louisa?"

I was not prepared in any way for what she said next.

"Martin, will you marry me so I can claim my inheritance?"

To Be Continued . . .