Recognition

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.

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The meeting with Chris Parsons came on the heels of my latest meeting with Dr. Milligan. Milligan had been consulting, or perhaps counseling me was more accurate. The man steepled his fingers as he leaned on his desk and peered at me with interest. He'd just asked me how I was.

What was he asking? Was I well fed, or fit, or… I sighed.

"Difficult to say?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Dr. Ellingham, your problem is not that unusual. Granted, not as mundane as a fear of arachnids."

"Most people with arachnophobia do not vomit, pass out, or suffer palpitations," I observed.

"True, but I have treated an air force pilot who developed a fear of the smell of jet fuel."

"Bit of a handicap." I crossed my legs and check my watch. "This is a waste of my time."

Milligan chuckled. "Time; time is very important to you isn't it."

"Time is what separates us from the quick and the dead." I tapped my watch. "If your heart would stop, your brain would die in less than five minutes, say four and a half. So - yes time is very important."

Milligan smiled slightly. "Yet I suspect if I collapsed you'd leap on my chest and start CPR."

"I've done my share of chest thumping, yes."

"So, when you are in the middle of 'chest thumping' as you call it, what happens to time; that is your sense of time."

"I never thought about it. What has this to do with my, erm, issues?"

"Martin, when you're in the moment - say resuscitating a fallen fisherman, or whoever, I suspect that time seems to stretch. The effect is fairly well known, yet not well understood."

I checked my watch. "Time's about up."

Milligan laughed. "That's my line. But let's go on. When that fisherman's pulse is faltering, his eyelids flickering, as his brain and body struggle to hang on, you're in your element."

"Of course. That's when… uhm… I can use my skills."

"Ah, medical skills." Milligan leaned back. "That's all?"

"It's what I'm good at. Surgery… surgery was… the only thing I was ever good at."

Milligan leaned back and stretched. "Only thing?"

"Yes…" I jumped up. "Milligan this is a waste of time."

Milligan smiled. "No. Think about my question again. What else are you good at?"

That stopped me. What else?

"Must be something - something you also care about."

"Oh, I repair clocks."

"Ah, yes time again. Clocks and such."

I sighed. "Yes."

"And you feel that repairing clocks is like performing surgery."

"No," I humphed. "Granted the instruments are similar, not for cutting, but there are forceps, pincers, plus small wrenches and screwdrivers. Those might be construed as scalpels."

"So working on clocks is a replacement for operating."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Milligan leaned forward, his face beaming. "Prove me wrong."

"I was repairing clocks, or trying to, when I was eight. So your supposition is incorrect!"

Milligan nodded. "Yet repairing clocks is very similar for the small instruments and fine motor skills are just the same."

"Oh."

Milligan smiled. "Martin there are depths to each of us that can be hidden or not. I think that if you would admit it there are many things that you are good at."

I stood. "Milligan this is…"

"Rubbish?" Milligan stood. "You mentioned once that you had planned to marry."

"We… called it off."

"Ah. Down in Portwenn."

I nodded and tried to head to the door, but Milligan beat me to it and barred my way. "Move," I told him.

"Still see her? In the village?"

I closed my eyes. "That's the thing."

"Oh," he said. "Tough that. Local woman?"

"She's the Head Teacher - acting Head Teacher of Portwenn Primary," I said. "She's good at it."

Milligan leaned against the doorframe, further blocking the portal. "You sound quite proud of her; her accomplishments."

"She is a very good teacher," I said but had to stop for my throat froze in fright of what I might say next.

"I sense that the marriage proposal did not end quite amicably."

"You're wrong!"

"Oh?"

I sighed and closed my eyes. "Milligan, you're poking around where you do not belong."

"It's my job - the only thing I'm good at," he replied.

My face screwed itself up in consternation. "I must go."

"This woman…"

"Louisa Glasson."

"Miss Glasson then; have you known her long?"

"Over three years." I felt the weight of that time descend on me, and felt it had all been for naught. "And I fear it's been wasted."

"Oh God," he said. "The time was wasted?"

He'd maneuvered me and I wondered how much he knew. "You've been checking up on me."

"Yes, I did call Chris Parsons, not telling him your name. Just asked about North Cornwall communities and so on and Dr. Parsons knows a lot about the area."

I sighed once more. "So…"

"He mentioned you of course. Part of the profile Ellingham - I need it to understand where my patients are heading or coming from. He told me…"

"That I was a failure in London - a nervous wreck when I came out here to hide? Blast."

"No, Martin, not at all. He says that you are the finest doctor, surgeon or otherwise he has ever known."

"Chris would say that. Did he also tell you that not only was I to marry Louisa, but we got pregnant, she fled to the capital, but that she moved back with me from London and is now trying to avoid me? Had some odd row which she won't speak of and she moved out? Says she wants nothing to do with me! How can she keep doing that in a village of less than a thousand?" I took a deep breath. "And I don't have a bloody clue what I'm to do about her and our baby?"

Milligan came to me and looked very intently into my eyes. "No, Martin. He did not tell me any of that. But you just did."

I stiffened my back and pushed past him to the door.

"Martin, we can talk about it right know if you want to. I don't have any other patients for the rest of the afternoon."

I stopped with my hand on the door handle. Milligan seemed at times both snake charmer and faith healer, yet by his help I was able to slice beefsteak and raw liver into pieces without throwing up. I had to give him that much recognition.

"Martin?" Milligan asked. "Do you want to talk about it?"

My hand felt sweaty so I slowly released the knob and turned towards him, wiping my palm on my trousers.

"Please, have a seat," Milligan said. "It won't hurt to talk."

Unbidden my feet and legs carried back me to his desk and I sat down.

"Now," Milligan said. "Start at the beginning."