CHAPTER NINE

Greetings, faithful readers! The latter part of this chapter was written in a flu-induced semi-brain fog. I hope it makes sense, but I make no promises.

As usual, Doc Martin is owned by Buffalo Pictures.

'Uncle Phil, are you sure this tree is going to fit in the house?' Martin eyed the large evergreen critically, noticing how it towered over his six foot tall uncle. The two of them had been tramping around the woods for nearly two hours now, and the rain that had started a while ago had quickly gone from a light sprinkle to absolutely tipping down. Despite being cold and wet, Martin was happy to be spending some time with Uncle Phil, just the two of them. It was a rare occasion since there was always so much work to do on the farm.

'Hmm...you may be right, son, now that I look at it closely...I don't think your Aunty Joan would take too kindly to cutting a hole in the ceiling, do you?'

'Umm, decidedly not.'

'Right. Well, let's get on, then...our tree is out here someplace, and I am quite ready to find it and get home by the fire,' Uncle Phil said determinedly. Martin jammed his hands into his pockets as they began to walk further afield.

It was five days until Christmas. The village fete had gone off without incident (except quite a few hangovers the next morning), and Martin had to admit he had even enjoyed some of it. Aunty Joan and her friends had outdone themselves with the quality and abundance of food, and Martin had eaten until he thought he may burst like a Christmas cracker. The Christmas tree in the square was bright and beautiful in the early winter twilight. For the first time, Martin was actually beginning to feel a bit of excitement and warmth in his heart from the spirit of the season. Joan noticed her nephew wearing a smile that had been missing from his previous few visits-a smile she had achingly missed and had wondered if she would ever see again.

Joan may not have had much experience with children, but it didn't take an expert to determine Martin was unhappy at boarding school. Since he had begun there, she had helplessly watched him withdraw further into himself, spending more time reading and studying and increasingly less time speaking. There was a wariness about him, and on the occasions when she reached out to him for a hug or a pat on the shoulder, he flinched-almost as if he expected a shove or a pinch instead.

The letters he wrote to her and Phil were full of news about his school work and exams and things he had learned, but never gave any idea of what he might be doing when he wasn't studying or in his classes. He had never mentioned names of anyone who may have been a friend, someone he may spend time with playing games or getting into the usual boyhood mischief. She wondered grimly if he was ever able to just relax and have a laugh with his mates. Or did he have any mates at all?

Joan put words to her worries and had confided in Phil that morning before he left with Martin to look for a Christmas tree. 'Please, try to get him to talk to you about school, won't you? Perhaps a chat, man to man, is what he needs. He only ever tells me things are fine, but I know better,' she persuaded.

'I'll try my best, Joanie, but you know how he is.'

'Yes, I do know, and that's why I'm worried. He used to be able to tell me everything he was thinking...'

'He's older now, and he's always been protective of you. Maybe he is trying to keep you from worrying and getting upset. Or maybe things really are going well, did you ever think of that?'

'No, I know my Marty, and I know when something is bothering him. Please talk to him, Phil.'

'I said I would. Now, don't get yourself worked up. I'm sure it will all work out.' This was Phil's standard answer to any problem Joan brought up to him, and quite frankly, it was becoming tiresome to her. Things always did manage to work out, but not necessarily the way you hoped or planned, and just saying the words didn't offer any sort of solution at all.

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Having at last found a suitable tree, Uncle Phil and Martin had managed to cut it down and tie it to the top of the truck fairly quickly, and were now sitting in the cab with the heating turned up full blast. Martin was just beginning to get feeling back into his toes and fingertips as they found the main road and made their way toward the farm.

'I'm going to ask you a question, Marty, and I want you to be truthful, now that your Aunty Joan isn't around. I know you've been sugar coating your letters home so you won't worry her. How are things going at that school, really?' Phil asked firmly, feeling it was best to just get it all out in the open. He could see Martin hedge in the seat beside him, looking uncomfortable and fidgeting a bit. 'Whatever you want to say will stay between us, man to man, if that's how you want it. Are you as miserable there as Joan thinks you are?'

Martin sighed. 'It doesn't really matter how I feel about it, does it, Uncle Phil? I don't have any choice but to go there, miserable or not,' he retorted with uncharacteristic vehemence. 'The truth is, I hate it there, it's lonely and unfriendly and the other boys are all imbeciles and cretins. I hate having to live with them, I'd much rather be on my own if I had the choice between the two.'

'Is there nothing you enjoy there at all?'

'I enjoy learning and studying. And I enjoy the libraries.'

Phil smiled. 'Well, there's nothing at all wrong with that. Do the other lads mistreat you?'

With a satisfied smirk, Martin briefly told him of his altercation with Graham the bully, which made his uncle laugh until there were tears in his eyes. 'Well done, son!' he exclaimed, patting Martin on the back. 'I daresay they will think twice about bothering you again after a punch like that!'

'Don't tell Aunty Joan.'

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

It seemed to Phil that young Marty was holding his own at school, even if he wasn't entirely pleased with being there. The poor lad was right; he really didn't have a choice in the matter. It was a shame his father was such an unfeeling, self-serving tosser...ah, but there wasn't anything to be done about that either. Best to make the most of what you are given and get on, he thought, and his nephew seemed to be doing that in his own way.

The pair of them were nearly home when they met another small truck coming from the opposite direction, and Phil pulled over slightly to make room in the narrow lane.

'That looks like John Slater's old clunker...wonder what he's doing up this way?' Phil pondered out loud.

'Dunno. You mean Mr. Slater the fisherman?' Martin answered absentmindedly, busy looking out the window at the sea, where the rain clouds were beginning to break up.

'Yes...' Phil replied slowly, glancing at the boy. 'You know him?'

'Met him a few times. Went on his boat once. It was awful, I was dreadfully sick...I told Aunty Joan I would never set foot on a boat again after that!' Martin wrinkled his nose, remembering the awful nausea he felt that day.

The truck cab was quiet as Phil contemplated this new information, as he felt a cold anxiety begin to gnaw at his insides. 'Huh,' he remarked, the picture of nonchalance, 'when was this, then?'

Martin thought a minute. 'Um...last summer, I think?' He sat up taller in his seat as the house came into view. 'Oh good...I wonder what's for tea? I'm starving!'

Phil began to experience a nausea of his own as he pulled the truck into the farmyard, home at last.