"Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon . . . "
Chapter 10 - Fantasy
Ruth closed her eyes and nestled into the inviting seat of the Great Western Railway. She wanted tea and needed a meal of some sort, but first she must settle herself. Al was to fetch her at 10 o'clock for the journey to Bodmin Parkway but was – as she had come to expect – tardy. Hand rubbing his chin and eyes darting, he tried to explain himself as Ruth exhorted him to hurry. The 11:15 train should arrive at Paddington by half four, giving time for her leave taking reception from Broadmoor . It was nothing she wanted, but Helen Malloy, the new chief executive, insisted. Ruth was to be feted for 43 years of assessing the fractured minds consigned to the English penal system.
Her achievements were many but several patients were beyond help. They could only be warehoused at Rampton until their troubled souls left the earth they once menaced. If nothing else affirmed her decision to formally retire, it was the regrettable incident of Sally Tishell. Ruth could no longer manage even a simple drug induced psychosis.
Having inherited Joan's farm, she thought to restore herself in Portwenn for a few months. The farm was beautiful, quiet and peaceful. Exactly what she needed to finish her book. Having her sole nephew in the nearby village was reassuring. Having his child and the mother was a joy. This was all she hoped for had she married Russell - a bit of family in her old age.
Her nephew was not the easiest man, and she worried that Louisa did not see enough in him to stay at his side. The younger woman had visited Ruth recently, baby in tow. The autumn term had begun a few days earlier and her child care plan had gone awry. Could Ruth possibly mind James Henry for a few days? Certainly, she was happy to help but did point out that her balance issues and arthritic hands may not ensure the best care. Perhaps her skills could be better used in hiring a child minder. Did Louisa want James Henry cared for in the surgery or in someone's cottage?
"Martin would prefer the surgery, although he does complain of the noise. I'm happy if someone cares for him properly - or my definition of properly. Martin thinks I'm too lax with James. In fact, he likes nothing I do. My cooking, washing up, hygiene habits." Louisa's face fell: "Honestly, Ruth he's driving me mad. I've never lived with anyone and he's so, so, so – Martin!"
"Yes, my dear, he is that indeed. Would you indulge me for a moment whilst I put water on boil. I recall a sabbatical with Russell several years ago in a cottage overlooking the Irish Sea. I'm the least romantic woman in the world, but I did have these notions of cozy chats by the fire, walks along the beach, cooking meals together.
"Russell was on a tight deadline to produce a book, and I imagined myself his helpmate. Editing, making suggestions, offering support. I know little of economics, but I could at least organise him. He had a tendency to procrastinate whilst I crack on. Four days into it, we were arguing like fishwives, and I was ready to toss him and what had been a lovely relationship into the sea. Suddenly, I had sympathy for the murderers I treated. Their motives seemed terribly rational.
"After rising at dawn and having a run on the beach, Russell would make a large fry up whilst listening to turgid German operas. He expected me to have a full breakfast, knowing I couldn't bear more than tea and a bit of fruit before noon. He would then fiddle about with his mail, the garden or anything to avoid the task at hand. I tried cajoling him into simply putting pen to paper but he resisted at every turn. The man I loved had become this muck about who found every excuse not to work and then became grumpy when nothing was accomplished.
"By week's end, I thought to leave the cottage and likely never see him again. I felt terrible but did not wish to offend him. We had spent many days and nights together, but this was different. I had never lived with anyone and was quite used to having everything as I wanted. After his wife's death Russell became master of his singular domain and had no room for another entrant.
"Saturday morning, on my return from shopping, I saw Russell perched on a ladder, shifting slates about the roof. Bloody hell, he was to write a book not be the handyman! A vision of the next five weeks unrolled in my mind: every day the breakfast that gagged me, jollying him into working, becoming increasingly annoyed, not wanting to say anything to put him off. Something must be done.
"I didn't want to startle him, so I whistled loudly to announce my approach. He quickly dismounted the ladder, looking sheepish. Good. He recognized he was in the wrong, and we had a starting point. We spent the afternoon and a bottle of quite good Beronia working out how to live together. Turns out I wasn't the only one annoyed. I was shocked to hear that Russell was contemplating asking me to leave, allowing him to write in peace. We were each shattered, but our lowered inhibitions prompted a frank conversation. Candour was the first order followed by patience and acceptance. We loved each other too much to lose the remaining five weeks together. As it was, Russell died the next year. That time, our time, will be the memory I take to my grave."
"Oh, Ruth, I am so sorry." Louisa lightly touched the older woman's arm, an endearing gesture Ruth had come to expect. She was a warm, empathetic creature and one of the things Martin must find attractive in her. Yet Ruth saw that Louisa's insecurity and prickly nature might be lessening that attraction. The last seven weeks had been filled with rows between the couple, many of which she had witnessed. Ruth visited Martin soon after Louisa had decamped to her mother, and he was beside himself. Poor boy, he simply could not understand why she felt the need to flee the surgery. What, he asked repeatedly, had he done wrong?
Without benefit of wine or social artifice, Ruth candidly explained to Martin her perception of his relationship with Louisa. "You and she had independent lives for many years. Whether you want to admit it or not, you had no preparation for living together, much less with an infant. As I understood from Joan and the village wags, you two were at loggerheads until the baby's birth.
"You had done little more than moon over each other before you proposed marriage. When you wisely – in my opinion - did not marry, Louisa left Portwenn, much as she has now fled the surgery. You made no attempt to woo her back from London, and when she returned, pregnant with your child, you were less than welcoming."
"That's not true, Aunt Ruth!" She jumped at Martin's explosive response. "I made every effort to care for her – to help her – to do even the smallest thing. Louisa refused. She is quite, quite - obstinate. Yes, obstinate."
"And I suppose you were solicitous and understanding – just as you've been since the child was born." Ruth's sarcasm was intended to keep Martin talking. If he wasn't angry, he would retreat into silence.
"I was. Or I try to be. I am fully involved with the child," his hand emphatically chopped the air. "In fact, I do more than my share. Despite my surgery hours and emergency calls, I manage the shopping, most of the cooking, washing up, laundry and tidying. I know you're quite taken by Louisa, but she is not faultless. She is messy and disorganised. Our rooms are in shambles and my life has been turned upside down. I have been more than accommodating. You are wrong," he sputtered.
"And that is why Louisa left, is it?"
"I don't know why she left. That's the problem. If I knew, I would do something about it. I've ruled out post-partum depression as she seems sad only with me. The clinic in Truro reports she's physically sound. Louisa is tired from caring for James at night, but she failed to establish his sleeping routine. She has only herself to thank."
"Forgive me for asking Martin, but have you resumed physical intimacy with Louisa? You are beyond the recommended period, you do know."
"That is none of your business, Aunt Ruth! It is irrelevant, and it is time for you to leave."
"So you haven't. Well that could be the problem. Louisa had a first child as she approached middle age, a time when a woman's perception of her body changes. By not being intimate, Louisa may fear that you find her unappealing. You see her only as a mother, not as a woman. That is a common problem for couples with a new baby."
"Unlike these hedonistic villagers, Aunt Ruth, I can control my bodily urges. I'm giving Louisa time to heal and to rest. She is nursing, and I don't want to upset her."
"Having sex with you, Martin, would probably not upset her. She is more likely to be upset from the lack of it. I encourage you to broach the subject. I could take James if you wanted a weekend away or even here at the surgery. Your choice. Louisa is very insecure, as I have pointed out to you many times. You must tell her that she is important to you, that you care for her. I know that is tiresome, but she has been trying to be more patient and understanding with you. You must have pushed a bit too far to make her leave tonight. Care to discuss it?"
"No, I don't care to discuss it. I will be leaving for London soon, and there are more important considerations at the moment. . . . "
"Such as you leaving Louisa and James in Portwenn?"
"Yes, mmm, yes."
"Good for you, Martin. Your horrid parents stayed together because of you. We don't want you do the same thing, do we?"
"No, I suppose not." Ruth looked directly at his stricken face, willing him to say more, but she had lost him.
"I'll say good night now, Aunt Ruth." With that Martin wordlessly escorted her to the front door and firmly closed it.
She remained in her car for several minutes, breathing deeply. Everything was coming undone. Martin had alienated the mother of his child, and now she had alienated him. Ruth's efforts to help the couple were fruitless. She was a fool to think she could build some sort of family with Martin. Only a fantasy. She would return to London and separate herself from him as his father once did. Let him to do with Louisa and James as he pleased.
Soon after their late evening conversation, Martin rang Ruth at the farm. The chemist who had been caring for James Henry could not be found. PC Penhale was searching the village – could Ruth come to the surgery? What ensued was a frantic race between Portwenn and the Camelot Hotel, assumed to be the castle where Mrs. Tishell said she would wait for Martin.
After searching the hotel and annoying the staff, they traced the kidnapper to Pentire Castle where Sally Tishell stood at an arched window, holding James Henry. Martin worked out that the chemist had taken a dangerous combination of drugs which exacerbated her fixation with him. He tried shouting the poor woman down from the window, but she wouldn't budge. Unsuccessful as Ruth warned he would be, she then attempted to cajole Mrs. Tishell into turning over the child. Neither approach worked. The woman was manic and could not be calmed.
Louisa finally urged Martin to play into the fantasy that gripped Sally. "Tell her how you feel about her, Martin. Tell her nice things. She wants to know you care for her."
"The woman's having a psychotic episode and needs medical care not a ridiculous recitation from me. Let me get on with it."
"Please Martin. I know what she wants to hear from you. Please tell her."
Martin began tentatively, but gained confidence as Ruth noticed him looking directly at Louisa rather than the chemist. Her wonderment continued as Martin admitted his transgressions, and Louisa nodded her forgiveness. He did indeed love her. London meant nothing to him without her. He would stay amongst the pinch faced villagers and be miserable if that would allow him Louisa.
Believing Martin's words were directed to her, Sally Tishell rushed from the small building throwing herself at him and nearly tossing the baby to Louisa. Ruth watched as Martin and Louisa clasped hands and walked the long path toward Martin's Lexus, the very picture of a devoted family. They had worked things out on their own. Ruth certainly wasn't needed. Her fantasy of a family was ended.
It fell to her and Joseph Penhale, the barmy police constable, to escort Sally Tishell to hospital. Once there, Ruth recounted events to a young counselor who suspected the chemist had a fantasy prone personality or was a maladaptive daydreamer. Both Ruth and an older psychiatric consultant agreed that restoring Mrs. Tishell's body chemistry was a first step, followed by cognitive behavioural therapy. Ruth explained all of this to Clive Tishell, the confused but loyal husband who was sat at his wife's bedside.
The next day Ruth waited until late afternoon to visit Martin at the surgery. His earnest, young receptionist, Morwenna, was eager to provide gossip about Sally Tishell. Wide eyed she asked Ruth: "Have you heard about the chemist, then?" With this, she twirled a finger near one ear to indicate the insanity that had seized her former employer.
"Yes, I have. Mrs. Tishell should be fine. Only an unfortunate mix up in her prescription drugs. You'd think a chemist would know better. Is Martin in?"
"Can't you hear him?" He's been shouting on the phone to someone named Robert for the last 10 minutes. Go through when you please. I'll be hiding under my desk."
"Morwenna, next patient," Martin's voice thundered from behind the consulting room door.
Two old farmers in the reception area looked fearfully toward Morwenna who pointed toward Ruth. "Why don't you have a go at him, then. If you're not out in five minutes, I'll ring the PC."
"Good of you to see me, Martin." Ruth hoped a nonchalant approach might lighten his obviously bad mood. "I've only come to say good bye. I have my formal retirement from Broadmoor in a few days and will be traveling to London. I'll return in a week or so to make arrangements for the farm. I'm not sure what's to be done with it, but I would appreciate your thoughts before October. After that, you'll be quite busy at Imperial."
"I'm not going to Imperial. Nor to London. I've been on a call with Robert and the chief executive to terminate my appointment. Chris Parsons has arranged to re-hire me as the GP for Portwenn." Martin's downcast eyes and fidgeting hands belied his blasé manner. Something was troubling him.
"Oh Martin, you've done it again haven't you? The haemophobia. Your returning to surgery was only a fantasy. Your last chance, really. How does that make you feel, Martin?
"How do you think it makes me feel, Aunt Ruth," anguish choked his voice. "How in the bloody hell do you think it makes me feel?"
Continued . . . .