Rip
The characters, places and situations of Doc Martin, are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story places no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.
Thank you for reading and reviews are much appreciated.
"Martin," she said huskily. "I can't…" I couldn't see her face in the dark but I guessed she was biting her lip. "Can't…"
That morning I was examining the eye of Stan Chart, one of the lobster fishermen, who'd got something in it. "Can you see it, Doc?"
"If you'd stop moving your head I could properly examine you!" I shouted.
"Sorry, Doc," he said, stopping his writhing but kept his mouth working. "How are things on the home front, Ellingham?"
I was peering at his eye, which was inflamed from his amateur efforts to dislodge whatever it was, through my magnifier. "Stop right there."
"What? And can you help the pain, Doc?"
I sighed as I went to my medicine cabinet and took out the topical anesthetic drops. I applied them to his eye. "Now you can keep from squirming, I hope. Give it a few seconds to take effect. How'd this happen?"
The fisherman leaned back on my couch, slightly more relaxed than before as he'd been twitching even as I touched his hand. "Had a pot stuck on the bottom. Happens sometimes - the current shifts tag lines; under a rock usually." He groaned. "Then we got too smart by half. Me and my mate rigged a line from the boom and heaved away. Hell's bell's the bugger shot straight up and into the boat, but something came off it and went straight in my eye! Hurts a hell of a lot, Doc!"
"Still?"
"Well, maybe not that much, but my knee's killing me!"
"What's wrong with your knee?"
"I banged it on the coaming coming ashore in the dingy."
"Right, well we'll see to that in turn." That's the way these exams usually went. A splinter turned into a near laparotomy. As it was the arrival of the fisherman holding a hand to his eye had thrown my morning schedule for a loop, as I took him as an emergent patient.
"And what about this?" he held out his left wrist where an ugly gash oozed blood from inside his oilskin jacket.
"Oh God!" I gulped - for now I'd have to stitch him up. The wound dripped blood onto my couch and the floor now as he straightened his arm and the blood pooled at his elbow dripped out.
Stan stared at me as I had to vomit into the bin. "You okay Doc?"
I wiped my lips then washed my hands. "Let's do the eye first." The anesthetic drops had done their work so I gloved my hands and held his eyelids open. "Now, look straight up." I held the optic forceps out of his sight. I'd located a bit of grit stuck on the sclera, the white of the eye. "Now, I'll just take the grit away." I swiftly put the tiny forceps on the piece of sand and plucked it off. "Done."
He blinked. "Wow! That's great. Doesn't hurt at all."
I flushed the eye with saline next. "I'll give you some ointment. Use them for one day only."
"For the pain?"
"No, it's an antibiotic. The eye will heal quickly. Here." I dropped an eye patch by his side. "Keep it covered." I ripped the package open and slipped the cover on the eye, the elastic behind the ears. "No peeking - no light - no rubbing or scratching for 24 hours."
He growled up at me.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, Doc! Arrrgg! Pirate, right?"
I sneered as I began to tug at the oilskin. "I can't believe you were fishing in this rotten weather." The Met had a weather alert out for a storm but fisherman being fishermen they went out anyway.
"Well, Doc," he sat up revealing his bloodstained sleeve and the damaged arm, "you never know what you might bring home!" he laughed. "Sorta like you!" he laughed again.
"What you mean?" The laceration of his wrist was not deep, merely long and bloody and I had to suppress the vomit reflex with all my strength. "You don't wash often, do you?" I added sneering at his filthy arm and clothing. "Look at the dirt! If this injury had happened further at sea what would you have done?"
"Oh, wrapped it up in a towel or an old shirt. Got some rags on board."
"No first aid kit? Good God! You might die of sepsis!" I swabbed at the blood and disinfected the area with the strongest medical cleaner I had.
"Owww, that hurts!"
"It should. If you had a modicum of washing habits…" I looked into the wound. "I'll have to irrigate this. Pauline!"
The door came open. "Yes, Doc?" my semi-able assistant popped in.
"Get a basin, on the cart. No! The large one. I need you to irrigate and flush this wound while, I uhm…"
Pauline nodded. "Yeah, sure."
"Use this," I gave her the bottle. "Then scrub the surrounding tissue. I've shown you how to do that. Be thorough! And use gloves!" I yelled.
She gloved up. "Now you can, go, Doctor."
"Where you going Doc?" I heard Chart ask as I left the room. I dashed down the hall and into the loo where I gripped the sink with mighty force and stared at my sweaty, alarmed face in the ancient mirror until the panic abated. A cold and wet towel held to my face helped immensely and in a few minutes I was able to go back to surgery.
The stitching went well and Pauline bandaged the wound nicely.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" I asked.
"The blood draw course had an extra evening thing on first aid and bandages. Thought I might be more useful."
I peered at the wrap. "Competent."
"Goody," she said. "This mean I get more money?"
"No. Now Mr. Chart..."
"No, it's Wilson," Pauline muttered.
I ripped off my gloves, washed hands and swept up his chart. Stanley Wilson, it read. "Pauline these are the wrong notes!"
My patient grunted. "Nope. That's right. Wilson."
"But I thought your surname was Chart?"
"No. Got that as a nickname when I was 'bout fifteen. My dad took sick and I decided to take the boat out on my own. Got lost. The Lifeboat boys had to find me. I was twenty miles south and ten miles to sea of Rump's Fort! All my mates teased me. Said all I needed was a chart! Get it?"
I glanced at Pauline to see if this was correct or some inane joke.
She grinned and cracked her gum. "That's right Doc. We always call him Chart."
I sneered at Pauline and she left as I cleaned away the surgical debris. "I'm writing orders for oral antibiotics - fourteen days' worth."
"Two weeks?" the fisherman objected. "Damn. And my knee?"
I prodded the swelling and found nothing broken or strained. "A bruise. Paracetamols."
He grunted as he climbed off the exam couch. "Hell of a day's catch."
I wrote the scrip and gave it to him. "If they eye or writs bothers you especially the wrist - inflammation, undue pain, and so forth, come see me. I'll take those stitches out in two weeks and keep it dry."
"Ho in the hell can I work if I can't get my arm wet? I'm a bloody fisherman!"
"Use rubber gloves."
"Oh. Well I guess that's why they pay you the big money, right?"
I ignored him. "Next patient!"
The man stood over me. "You must make a pretty penny from what I hear, considering what your missus been wearing."
"What do you mean?"
Mr. Wilson swung his oilskin over his torso and I winced at the thought of germs and dirt touching the fresh bandage. The man would be lucky he didn't get gangrene and need an amputation. He smiled wickedly. "That Miss Glasson - nice bit a skirt. Some of the boys was sayin' she shore looks a cute thing, preggers and all - perky and pert-like," he cackled. "Flash clothes you been putting on her back!"
"Get out," I said hanging on to my desk to keep from striking him
He lowered his voice and his rotten and yellow teeth came far too close to my face. "Maybe she figures it's an even trade, Doc? She gives you her baby and gets room and board, and clothes, maybe a whole lot more. Bet she's been teaching you a thing or two - upstairs?"
I stood up and though Wilson was broad and muscular I topped him by a head. "You! Shut your rotten stinking mouth! Miss Glasson and I are…"
"Oh, yeah, I can see that," he grunted and leered.
I stomped to the door, propelling him along. "If I hear ONE thing that you have been spreading these EVIL and MEAN LIES to ANYONE, I'll have you up on charges!"
He gave me a scared look. "I bet you would." He sighed. "Sorry Doc. I got a mouth on me that won't quit." He waved his repaired arm at the eye patch. "But you fixed me."
I grabbed his elbow. "Wilson or Chart or whatever your name is - I do NOT treat bullies like YOU because it is FUN! Far from it! It is my job and if I could just as easily turn you away and let the flesh rot off your bones!" I let him go and tugged at my suit. "But it is my job and I am a professional. But," I stuck my finger in his face, "I could just as easily take you outside and bash your face in."
The man cowered. "Jeeze, Doc. Sorry. I am sorry. Zip lip from me, right?"
I glared at him. "See to it," I hissed. "Now go."
After he was gone Pauline came in. "Sorry Doc. Chart's a nasty bit of business. He goes though wives and girlfriends so fast he has to import them from Devon."
I blew air through my nose. "Pauline…"
"Yeah, Doc?"
"Send in the next patient," I said slowly while my head throbbed.
So that night Louisa lay in the dark whimpering and I had to ask her why.
"I can't…" I couldn't see her face in the dark but I guessed she was biting her lip. "Can't…"
"Can't what?"
She sniffled. "People are saying mean things - about me - and you too."
"I know."
She rolled against me and I felt tears land on my neck. "What have you heard?"
I took a tissue and by using facial landmarks dabbed at her eyes. "Nothing." Her half-term belly pressed against me and it shook as she weeped; her silent cries racking her whole body.
"But you just said…"
"No."
She clutched at me. "Damn them all."
"Louisa…"
"No Martin. Those nice maternity outfits you bought me?"
"Yes."
"I heard whispering in the Market that they were your form of paying me."
"What for?" This was what Chart - Wilson - was intimating.
"Like I'm a trollop." She broke down sobbing. "That our baby is sort of a business deal!" she added whinging.
I held her while she cried. "They are stupid and ignorant people, Louisa." I tried to wipe her face once more but she caught my hand.
"No Martin…" she gasped, "I… can't..."
"What do you mean?"
There was silence, then she rolled away from me and rose from bed. "I don't think I can do this anymore."
"What are you saying, Louisa?"
She switched on the light and I saw she was wearing the white nightdress she had like so much. She stared at my reflection in the dressing table mirror. "I'm leaving you."
Those words ripped a gash in my mind and in a flash it was Edith Montgomery again, over twenty years ago, telling me she wouldn't marry me and was leaving for a practice in Canada. "Bu… but…" I stammered. "Where will you go?"
Her beautiful face looked down at her bulging belly and she rubbed it absently. "I don't know, Martin. I really don't know."
