Chapter 12

Triumph

Leaving Port Wenn for Oxford, Martin Ellingham caught sight of Louisa Glasson as she strode by his car. Her reaction matched his. She averted her eyes and gave no indication that she had seen him. Containing the urge to accelerate his car, Martin instead drove slowly through the village to his meeting with Harriett Jaffe.

His last visit to the Jaffe house on Squitchey Lane had been in triumph. Receiving his BA in Medical Sciences days before, he would soon begin clinical studies at St. Mary's. Three other top students and Martin had been invited to their tutor's home to honour their achievements.

Reza Houmani planned to be a neurologist, whilst John Collier would train in oncology. The fourth guest, Edith Montgomery, would specialise in obstetrics and gynaecology, a field of endeavour the men thought quite appropriate for a female but not truly in the select range of medical specialties. "Nothing but a baby catcher," they sneered. No reason to include her in their august company.

Marjorie Jaffe was a gracious hostess whose dinners sparkled with intellectual conversation and witty repartee. To break the ice with her nervous, young guests, she asked each to recall an amusing story from childhood. Collier went on a bit much about the pranks he and his brother perpetrated against the family dog. The others laughed, but Martin saw nothing humorous in stories about the filthy, disgusting beast.

For his part, Houmani made light of his family's perilous escape from Iran by describing his mother's indecision over what treasures she would bring. Limited to only one piece of luggage, she could not decide between family photographs and her collection of Italian shoes. Ultimately she took her shoes and appropriated half of Reza's luggage space for the photographs.

Montgomery recounted the summer her parents returned from a brief holiday to find that she and her five siblings had each sustained an apparent injury. With the collusion of the local GP, the six children were appropriately bandaged for injuries ranging from a broken wrist to crushed toes. The successful hoax became the stuff of family legend, and even Martin thought the story funny.

Now it was down to Ellingham who stammered that his parents were quite serious people. Thus he had no amusing stories from his childhood. He apologised and tried his best to bring the conversation back to medicine. Had anyone read a report in the BMJ about dilated cardiomyopathy, myocarditis and the bioptome?

Her green eyes flashing, Montgomery had coolly responded: "Yes. But then have you read the article about the measurement of cardiac output by electrical impedance plethysmography in pregnancy?"

"Now, now you two," reproved their hostess at this classic display of Oxford one-upsmanship. "Let's enjoy tonight and leave medicine for tomorrow."

At the end of the evening, Stanley Jaffe offered a short toast to each of the four. Calling them the "best of the best," he exhorted the new graduates to continue their scholarly pursuits as they left Oxford. Addressing Martin, he said: "In my Organisation of the Body tutorials, I quickly learn who has the intellectual capacity and physical stamina to excel in the rigourous field of surgery. You, sir, are second to none. We expect great things from you. You will extend lives and make them worth living by the skills you have learned here. Oxford is very proud of you, Mr. Ellingham."

That night had been among the most satisfying of his life. Never again would he be the subject of derision and scorn. If he only continued on the course set at Oxford, his life would be filled with success. He would earn the respect of both his peers and superiors until the day he became the superior.

Now as he drove to Oxford, it was he who thought derisively of the long-faded notion that he would be successful and have the respect of others. Certainly, few people in Port Wenn respected him as a GP. Eager to be relieved of their mostly self-inflicted miseries, they only lapped up the good care he provided.

After their inauspicious start, Louisa Glasson did respect him as a doctor and eventually as a man. Whether she retained any respect for him, he had no idea. They had not talked since handing him her letter saying she could not marry him. Her reasons were not clear or notable. Nor were his reasons for not marrying her. But there were a few.

Witnessing a birth in training was much different from the awe he felt in delivering her friend's baby. What a jolt it had been when Louisa said she would decline Isobel's request that he be the godfather. She would make apologies to her friend. Standing on the hillside, Martin understood the sort of life he would foist on Louisa. She would be the one always apologising for him. For his rudeness, impatience, short temper and incurable discomfort around people. "No, we won't join you at the pub tonight. Martin doesn't drink and dislikes crowds." "Of course, Martin enjoyed the meal. He only said it was overly-salted because of his concern over the ill effects of sodium. Hazard of being married to a doctor," she would laugh.

How many times would she make apologies for his behaviour until she finally made this apology to him: "I'm sorry, Martin, but I can no longer be married to you."

He had been rash in asking her to marry him. Thinking only that he could not lose her, he desperately sought a way to keep her. Marriage would do. She could have easily said no, but she said yes. And he was elated. Their silly rows would be over, the misunderstandings could be managed, Port Wenn would somehow be bearable with Louisa as his wife.

He convinced himself that his phobia had brought him to the village and to Louisa. How else could he have found a woman who accepted him, who wanted him no matter his shortcomings. It must be that she loved him. He certainly loved her or thought he did. Love – the principal element in any marriage – was there. Everything would fall into place now. Fate once again showed its bright side when Louisa agreed to marry him.

No sooner had she thrown herself into his arms than they made their way upstairs to her bed. Hesitating a bit, Louisa had reassured him: "Sex is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget how to do it." And she was right. They came together quickly, triumphantly with no thought other than giving into their long-repressed need for each other.

With a drowsy Louisa pressed against his body, he thought of what they allowed themselves to forget: contraception. It seemed at the concert that she would soon have her period and had already ovulated. By now the unfertilised ovum had degenerated and was about to be expelled. They were safe, he clinically reasoned. Both were older, less fertile, less likely to conceive. Later that night, they made love again but Martin was a bit more careful. From then on, they had used condoms pinched from the supply at his surgery.

Louisa hinted that they would need condoms for only a short time. When they were married, she would like to try for a baby. She was nearly 37 and wanted a few children before reaching 40. Martin was a little taken aback with her stated intent to have children. As with her assumption that he did not want to be a godfather, Louisa did not ask his opinion about being a father. This may have been good, as he had never thought of children. Never thought even one a possibility.

In his London career, he had not treated children since his time as a house officer. He would see them walking about Kensington - bedeviling parents and nannies, making far too much noise, almost as pesky as the dogs obstructing the walkways.

A considerable change had occurred with his daily exposure to children in Port Wenn. Some days his surgery was overrun with them and their trifling afflictions. Not to mention his constant summons to the school for all manner of injuries. Children were always about in the village: playing their silly games, shouting taunts, generally being annoying.

With all of this, he really didn't know how he felt about children. Especially, his own children. Chris Parsons once confided: "Mart, I thought I loved Michelle, but when each child was born, my love was overwhelming. Even on the days they drive me mad, I love them. It's natural, instinctive. I can't explain it any other way."

Louisa became upset when he said Port Wenn might not be the proper place for children. She, herself, said the primary school was lacking, and the secondary school in Wadebridge no better. If she wanted children, they would be sent off to boarding school as he had been. Girls, especially. He would not allow a daughter of his to become the object of lascivious looks from the surfers or teenage pillocks who littered the Platt. If the C of E still had convent schools, his daughter would certainly attend one.

He shook his head in an attempt to physically rid himself of the memories from those few extraordinary weeks when he was once more triumphant. Surgery and London may be closed to him, but he would have something far more precious: A wife and the promise of children.

Now he had nothing.

To his astonishment, embarrassment actually, he told Harriett Jaffe everything just as she had asked. At first he resisted but she wouldn't allow it: "As I said, the haemophobia presents in a classic way. I have mild panic attacks at the sight of blood. They intensify if I smell it. I've had little experience with cauterizing flesh recently, but in London the odor of it was causal as well."

"You've said your life in Port Wenn is dramatically different from London, but your symptoms remain the same. The problem is not specific to a location, then, but to you. What triggers these reactions, Martin?"

For yet another inquisitor, he repeated the events precipitating his first panic attack in London. He was astute enough to understand the parallel between the emotions he experienced on seeing the patient with her family and his lack of any emotional involvement.

"Does it seem, Martin, that the haemophobia has become your defence against emotions? Perhaps, when your emotions are triggered you literally panic and create a reason to suppress them. As a surgeon, your objectivity was paramount. The day you reacted emotionally to the patient, the haemophobia occurred so that surgery was impossible. In that brief instant, your mind learned that a negative reaction to blood meant you were no longer in control. Without that control, you could no longer perform surgery. Do you want to return to surgery? Or was your phobia a means to escape from it? "

"No, of course not. Being a surgeon was what I needed. Your own father said Oxford expected great things of me. I fulfilled that promise and then some. I was the brilliant surgeon my father thought I'd never become. I proved to those insufferable bastards from school that I was their superior. I bested them. All of them."

Martin's vehemence was very telling to the psychiatrist. He pushed himself to become a surgeon not for himself but to prove his worth to others. The boys who harassed him at school, the horrid father who belittled his only son, and even her own father who burnished Oxford's reputation with the success of his exceptional student.

What did Martin actually want to do with his life, she asked.

"Become a doctor, of course. I've always been intrigued by mechanical items, and the human body is the ultimate machine. Its organisation, how the parts interact with each other, what outside influences do to it, how to fix the problems, really understand how it all works as a system. Looking at it as a whole, and understanding it completely. That's why I wanted medicine."

"But Martin, being a surgeon is just one aspect of what you want. The pulling apart and putting back together. What it seems you like more is understanding how the parts all work together, what affects each element, what can then set them right. You look at the interconnectivity of the body. Do you find that appealing?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so. In the village, I was presented with illnesses I'd never seen, even in my rotas at St. Mary's. I knew of or could research them based on the patient's symptoms. Diagnosing illnesses was quite challenging ." To his surprise, Martin continued: "I enjoy it actually. Practising in Port Wenn. No two days are the same. I start each morning with an appointment schedule, but by evening I've likely treated more patients and dealt with an assortment of maladies. It's quite interesting. Like nothing I ever experienced in London."

"Why then do you want to return to London, Martin?"

"To do surgery. I want to return to surgery. It's the only thing I've ever done well."

"You've only just said that you do well as a GP, that you enjoy the work. What is it then – the money, the prestige, the control over your operating theatre? If you enjoy what you now do, why go back to surgery?"

"Because I must get away from Port Wenn. I may like the work, but the village is a stultifying place occupied by inbred morons who couldn't care less about me. My role is to fix them with no thanks or promise that I won't be treating them for the same problem again. They are fools. The lot of them."

"Is there no one in the village you like, Martin?"

"Well, my aunt has a farm near the village. She keeps chickens and a herd of sheep. Her veg patch is organically-certified, so she makes a bit of money from it. There's the occasional meal at her farm, or I prepare a fish for us at the surgery. A villager I diagnosed with cancer early on sometimes calls in, and we chat about music. Have the odd cup of coffee."

"What do you do with your leisure time, Martin? Do you have friends in the PCT? Colleagues from hospital? Are you seeing anyone?" This last question was fairly provocative, and Harriet hoped it would in no way betray Chris Parsons. But the failure to marry had to affect him, and she must know more.

Martin glowered at her and walked to the window before answering. With his back to her, he responded: "You've no idea how difficult it is being a GP. I've no leisure time and count myself lucky if I can manage a hair cut without interruption. I'm constantly on call, very demanding really. But it's my duty. Then no. I've no friends from the PCT or the hospital in Truro."

"So no women either, Martin?"

"No, of course not."

"What do you mean, 'of course not?' You had a relationship with that woman in med school - Edith was it? The gynaecologist. Don't tell me she put you off women for life."

"No, of course not," he repeated. "It's just that I'm terribly busy. No time for that any more."

"Any more," was the phrase Harriett seized on with her next question: "Then there have been women since the gynaecologist? When was your most recent relationship, Martin?"

"That has nothing to do with the haemophobia" he stiffly retorted.

"Perhaps. But it may have something to do with your depressed state. Just as the body is interconnected, so is the mind. You have developed a phobia that makes you react negatively to emotional situations. Is that why you aren't in a relationship? Do you wish to avoid the emotions?"

"No," he nearly shouted, "it's because I'm incapable of making a woman happy."

What an interesting comment. She must tread lightly. "Well, that's quite a sweeping statement, Martin. Unless you've changed since training together. I can't imagine a woman not appreciating you. You got along well with everyone and were very generous with your help. You seem morose now, but at heart, you are the same man who got me through that year at St. Mary's. I wore out my other friends over-analysing the situation with Pradeep, but you put up with me."

"That was a long time ago, Harriett. My God, look at what's happened to me. I'm bloody miserable myself. How am I supposed to make a woman happy? Someone like Louisa . . . " Martin abruptly stopped, having said more than intended.

Louisa is it, thought Harriett. Parsons did not provide the fiancee's name, but what other woman would he mention so quickly?

A long silence followed as Martin paced between the window and the chair he had vacated. Sipping water, Harriett waited for him to say more. She did not wish to stop him from talking.

On returning from the window once again, Martin said: "Excuse me. I'll just step into the hall for the toilet."

"Yes, it's just there," she answered neutrally. How many men had she sent off to the loo to collect themselves and plan how to outwit her? The incident that could not be mentioned would escape their lips, and time was needed to stuff the genie back into its bottle. It was what they wanted to hide. It was what she must pull from them. Ellingham was no exception.

Continued . . . .