Chapter 21 – Broken

In spite of my better judgment I let myself be dragged, more like pushed – this time by Pauline – to attend Mr. Routledge again. The pensioner continued to dream up medical problems, partly brought on by apparent loneliness and ingesting too much beer. Now, partly because of the presence of me and my black medical case, which I'd set at the foot of the stairs, he now lay on the floor in agony amidst smelly clutter in his filthy cottage.

Louisa had come by to cook the man breakfast and she now crouched down by his head patting his shoulder as the ambulance staff dragged a stretcher into the crowded cottage. "Oh, you poor man. Poor man…"

The blue polka-dotted dress was stretched over her enlarged frame and if I was a saner man I'd have told how good she looked - so motherly… so nice. Somehow the image of Louisa crouching there and the brief kiss that Edith planted on my cheek as I climbed from her car after lunch the other day got combined. Her kiss was neither wanted nor expected by me. It was odd. We'd only had lunch and I did not think that Edith was thinking what she clearly was thinking. Another of life's great mysteries and I felt that this one was not yet explained.

Edith droned on and on reading her paper with the ocean to her back. The remnants of the bloody steak she had consumed were pushed to the side. Only by staring at her face and the ocean was I able to endure the red liquid dripping with each bite she took. And as I stared at Edith, ginger hair splayed across her ears and her green eyes, I was contrasting what I was seeing with what I remembered. The old Edith was not this approachable nor so nice to me. I'd pursued her, even dragging her to Cornwall to meet my aunt and uncle, but one look and I knew they hated her and she hated this place.

We even got engaged, she protesting all the while, and I was so broken up when she left for Canada. She left me – she left me – so bereft that I went into the loo at the airport, locked myself in a cubicle after she'd flown off and sobbed silently for at least an hour.

I finally put it all down to our intellects. Each of us was drawn to the minds and not the bodies, not that the physical wasn't enjoyable at the time. Certainly I had regrets after it was ended. So why was Edith playing up to me now? Granted our meeting in the hospital was quite by chance.

I've seen the present Edith, a bit softer, less of a hard edge, certainly less of the diagnostician I imagined she'd become. That mistake with Aunt Joan's friend Barbara was just one example; the SGA of Louisa's scan another. Edith tended to latch onto one thing, not seeing the whole. I was certain the baby, that is our baby, did not have SGA. There would have been other signs – less growth by the mother, and the fundal height measurement was so inexact it was laughable.

She went on reading her absolutely boring paper which I was ready to rip from her hands and toss to the nearest bin. Better yet, pick it up and light it from the candle on the table. But that would fit the 'old Ellingham' so prone to fits of rage, not that my temperament was so much improved.

Green eyes and orange hair – not blue eyes and brown hair. The woman across the lunch table was not Louisa. I was painfully aware that Louisa was quite different. Not just the presence of a growing foetus in her plus the accompanying processes to bring a pregnancy to term. No a lot more differences. Louisa Glasson was kind, forgiving, smart in the ways of people – not so factual as Edith or even myself – and she had loved me once…

I opened my mouth to complement Louisa's appearance, her hair and eyes, her pretty dress getting dirty on the filthy slate, when one of the paramedics bumped into me. "Oaf!" came out of my mouth. "Over here, watch the uhm," I directed the ambulance paramedics as they manoevered the gurney into the crowded room. "Oh, don't set the thing on his head! Fools! And watch his foot, there! Left femoral neck fracture, I believe. And don't bump the uhm… pregnant woman…"

The burly male paramedics were well known to me, but they gave me sneers. I yelled at the pair again as they gave me even more pained looks. "What is it with you two? Do your jobs properly!"

"Martin!" Louisa yelled back. "Stop being so mean! You're just getting everyone upset!" Her voice fell. "He just yells when he gets excited… and I should know," she ended.

"Louisa!" I shouted at her. "For god's sake don't…"

Louisa looked at me and her voice rose. "What Martin? Can't you shut up for once and let these men do their jobs? Hm? Not the first broken hip they've seen, I'll wager."

"That's right, Miss Glasson. We seen plenty." The larger of the two answered.

Mr. Routledge answered from the floor, lying in his dirty dressing gown and pyjamas. "Well, it's my first broken hip, Lisa and I can tell you this bloody YELLING is making me hurt even more!" He twisted his head around to look up at her. "Thanks for the help, Lisa. Now what about my breakfast? Those kippers would still be nice."

"Oh, you old fool…" I checked myself as Louisa glared and managed to lower my voice. "Mr. Routledge you may very well require surgery to repair your hip. No food or drink is allowed until a determination has been made as to your care."

"Oh," said the old man in a sad voice. "Been weeks since I had a good fried kipper!"

"You don't need all the fat and cholesterol," I replied, then stepped over Routledge and helped Louisa to stand. "Louisa, let's go out…"

The woman all but fell over frontwards and backwards as I steadied her on the rough steps going out. Her six-and-a-half month pregnancy had made her quite round now and maneuvering was difficult for her, clearly. "We'll just… get out of the way," I said to the paramedics, who for the first time seemed happy.

"Right." Louisa said and eyed the old man, still lying on the dirty slate. "I'll come visit you in hospital tomorrow, maybe. And we'll talk."

I rolled my eyes knowing her visit would be no errand of mercy, since she'd already laid plans to rent this filthy cottage, having so much as said she'd do when or if Mr. Routledge was in nursing care. His course of treatment would very likely be surgery, a week in hospital, rehabilitation in an equipped facility and then to a nursing home.

"You do that Lisa. Here's the key to my house, luv," he answered. "Hurry boys, this leg is killing me!" he groaned but managed to slip an old fashioned brass key into Louisa's hand.

The paramedics pushed piles of papers and whatnots over with a crash to make room for their wheeled stretcher.

"Have a care, boys! I got my whole life in here!" Routledge warned them. "That's all valuable stuff, now!"

I took Louisa's arm, she clutched her handbag, and we went through. The sunlight was bright after the dim confines and the air blew some of the stink away. "That hovel should be cleaned and burned!" I blew air from my nose. "That old fraud now has a real complaint! At least he won't be bothering me from here on!"

0000000

I stood outside the cottage and listened as Martin ranted and raved about poor Mr. Routledge. I rolled my eyes. As his hissing teakettle wound down, some of the real Martin Ellingham emerged as he realized I was standing next to him.

He looked about, at me and then out to sea. "Sorry, Louisa."

His suit was clean and pressed as always, tie neatly knotted, shoes polished – not a speck of dirt on him – and he looked good, I thought. In spite of everything I thought he looked good. I was squinting into the sun to see his face, and there was a soft glowing nimbus of light around his short silver hair. He did look good. "Sorry? For?" I replied.

"Oh, the, uhm… Routledge thing."

The Routledge thing. Sorry about Mr. Routledge I mulled to myself, and as my teeth ground together and I felt my blood pressure rise. "That's all?" I managed to spit out.

Martin looked hard at me. "Are you alright, Louisa?"

"Yes! Why wouldn't I be?"

Martin tipped his head from side to side and looked me over. "You looked flushed, you are grinding your teeth, and…"

I held up my hand to make him stop. "Martin! Enough diagnosing."

"You are stressed. I can see it. I should take your blood pressure." He reached for his medical case.

"Martin! Haven't you done enough damage for one day! Broke Mr. Routledge's hip and…" I stopped before I said more. I wanted to add that Martin had reassured me and yelled at me all in the space of twenty seconds. Infuriating man!

"I didn't push the old man down the stairs! He fell, over the uhm… my, case."

I sighed. "And?"

"And?"

I crossed my arms. "Edith Montgomery. You're going to talk to Edith about…"

"Of course. The scan." He shook his finger at me. "Don't you worry about the baby, as I said…"

"Excuse us Doc; Miss Glasson!" interrupted the paramedics bearing Mr. Routledge away.

We stepped aside as they carried him out of the cottage to the street.

"Say Doc!" the old man called from the stretcher. "I guess you're wrong, you tosser! I AM going to a home! Some doctor you are! Take me away boys. And hurry, I still need my breakfast!"

Martin's words: Mr. Routledge you are not entitled to a place in a home rang in my head. Given Martin's medical expertise, in which he was always right, he was no fortune teller though based on what happened just moments later. But the way he treated me and even the paramedics put me right over the top. Routledge called him a tosser. I considered this sentiment.

Martin wasn't a tosser. He was dependable, at least in a medical way. As well I knew, in spite of our argument, I could rely on him for medical help. Why the man had even rappelled down a cliff to treat the baker when he fell and got a closed head injury! Thinking of that I hoped my dad was enjoying another long stint in jail. How many did that make now? Six, seven… ten?

I sighed once more. I've certainly not had much luck with the men in my life. My dad, a sometime father as well as criminal. The architect Danny Steele who tried very hard to woo me - well you dropped him, didn't you? Danny clearly had no idea what made you tick, did he? And then there was and is Martin Ellingham.

The man stood two feet away from me, closer if you considered my now considerable pregnant belly and boobs, and I wondered what he'd do, if I leaned over and kissed him.

Kiss the man? After he yelled at you? After he treated Mr. Routledge so shabbily? After he said he'd talk to Edith, about your baby? Well it is his baby too. And I didn't just mean that Martin yelled when he was angry. I mean he always yelled when he got excited – and happy. Those times we made love too.

Edith made it sound all tawdry – calling it sex – but we did make love. Sex was easy, well I suppose it was, not that I'm that loose of a woman. But our long dance of opposites – all prickly with each other most times – interspersed with words and feelings that at least seemed and felt true at the time. And they were, at least then – must have been. The baby kicked just then, reminding me of the consequences, marriage notwithstanding.

For Louisa, if you didn't feel something for the man would have made love to him, or even had sex? The answer was NO; a resounding NO.

And when he called that Edith, you know he'll discuss medicine, right? Well, perhaps.

Martin looked round the house corner at the ambulance. "I suppose you'll be moving in here then?"

"Yes, I suppose so. We did, sort of, that is we… have an agreement."

"Close to the school. Your work."

"Yes."

"Needs a bit of cleaning, though."

"Yes." I could only state the obvious. "I'm sure Joan will help me."

"She would," Martin said with a disgusted look.

"Oh! So you don't think Joan should be helping me?"

"No… I mean… well… I notice she's been driving you about, and so forth." He looked away stiffly.

"Well, she'd done a hell of a lot more than you have, Martin!"

"Louisa, you said… if you'll let…" His mobile rang and he answered swiftly. "Ellingham." He listened. "Alright. Yes. Yes. Come to the surgery. Right."

I looked at Martin the father of my child and I wondered how we'd gotten so far apart. Two feet between us and the gulf was wide and getting bigger.

"Have to go." He picked up his black bag, the one that had done all the damage.

"Yeah."

"Goodbye." Martin turned and walked around the corner.

He left a vacuum in his wake and it hurt. Things get broken; hips – hearts too.

I peered into Mr. Routledge's cottage through a dirty cracked window at the clutter inside. I ran a finger across the crack in the pane and felt a slice as the glass cut my finger. I watched the blood well out slowly from the tiny cut and drip to the ground. Good thing Martin didn't see this! He'd be puking away right this moment.

I tossed the heavy brass key in my hand, patted my belly and spoke to it. "We have a home again, little baby. Our home." I took the door knob in hand, turned it and stepped inside.

Authors Notes:

An interruption to explain what I am up to, if you had wondered!

Season 4 of Doc Martin was tough to take for me, and if you feel like I do you may agree there was a lot of silence, confusion, and anger which was not explained either through action or dialogue. Louisa has a secret and a plan, stemming from her relationship with Martin, but the non-wedding occurred and she left town. Now she must return to Portwenn and going to the one person that she thinks she can trust, her plan falls apart as soon as Martin opens his surgery door. If only…

Martin has a secret and a plan. His secret is that with Louisa gone from Portwenn he is thinking of leaving, when out of the sky drops his old flame from medical school. Who immediately starts pushing him to get back to London, where she and perhaps he, thinks he belongs. But when a certain school teacher arrives bearing a burden, things go awry. If only…

Nations, peoples, and relationships can rise and fall because of the impact of a handful of words. Words that are either said or unsaid.

As I watched episode 1 of this season, and Louisa marched back down the hill with Martin following her with his eyes, I wanted to know a few things. What is SHE thinking? What is HE thinking? And as the tale progressed what does HE think about Edith. What does Louisa think about Edith?

This tortured triangle (well actually rectangle if you include a certain in-utero baby) is so ripe with drama, that the show's writers just had to throw it in our faces. Good for them and their creative skills, but it sure makes it hard on the rest of us! If the inhabitants of the village of Portwenn actually sat down and talked things through, it would be a very short TV series, wouldn't it! And that is the Portwenn magic isn't it? Compelling, interesting, infuriating, sweet, dramatic, romantic, and comedic all rolled together in this ITV production.

This tale of mine is trying to stick to the canon and attempts to look into the off-camera actions of our heroes and heroines and along the way try to answer those questions I asked myself.

DOC MARTN is owned by Buffalo Productions and I thank them for allowing me to borrow their creations and play with them a bit.

And before you panic and think the mad American bloke is totally off his rocker to leave you parked at this point in Season 4, NO, I am not done. Not yet!

Stay tuned, if you please.

Cheers, Rob