Chapter 38 – A ghost

So that got us to the weekend. The old Dame on Downton Abbey had asked, "What's a weekend?"

A weekend for me was having a lie-in both mornings, then a late breakfast or early lunch, and then start running errands. Dirty clothes needed to be washed, dried, and ironed, I had to pay bills and set my bank account to rights, get to the co-op for food… oh and take Martin's suit to the dry-cleaners after the conflagration.

We didn't talk about the fire, sort of built a wall around it and moved on. But, and it was a big but, I always did know that Martin would do what needed to be done to save life and limb, no matter the waste of time or personal cost. When I thought back to that moment of thinking he was dying, or dead already, I shook; and that was what had haunted my dreams or perhaps caused by my smoke-tinged hair in spite of the thorough washing I had before bed.

Martin's idea of a Saturday morning was to still arise at 5:30 for his usual routine for he always had surgery from 8:30 to noon, he washed, shaved, dressed, ate breakfast, did the washing up, took a brick walk to the top of the point and back, then he set to cleaning and straightening the surgery before Pauline rushed in downstairs at 8:29 ack-emma.

Hearing the clip-clop of Pauline's platform shows on the terrace, the bang of the front door, and the mumbling responses she gave Martin, I had to rise. What I wanted was to lounge around the house in PJs and slippers while nursing a cup of weak tea while I read lurid celebrity gossip-rags. "Hell," I muttered as I rolled out of bed. "Louiser the landscape has changed." It wouldn't do for Pauline lamb to know I was a bed hugger on Saturday's; must keep up an appearance.

I used the toilet then emerging to the bedroom looked at my profile in the long mirror in the corner. Face wasn't too puffy today, but what hadn't gone to my face seemed to have settled in my chest for they were bigger and so was my belly. "Lor, the exploding woman," I groaned. I turned side-to-side in front of the mirror examining the reflected ravages of impending motherhood. "Just how big is this thing going to get?" I felt the baby down there solid and firm to the touch. "Not complaining," I told it, "just wondering."

The full-length mirror had been brought over by Joan Norton, along with the slightly bashed-up dressing table in the corner of the bedroom. She'd brought them to the house Friday afternoon then popped by school to tell me about it.

The students were gone for the day and it was pretty quiet.

"Least I could do," she told me about the furniture. "How's Martin? How are… things?"

"Fine," I replied. "He's… well..." I picked up my handbag, dug out by wallet and fished out a £20 note, all I had, and slid it across the desk to her.

Joan eyed it warily. 'No, I couldn't. The furniture is all jumble shop stuff."

"Well then let me pay for your fuel for the ride to Truro last week."

She sighed then scooped the bill away and pocketed it. "Right."

To spare her embarrassment, I told her formally that I had moved in with her nephew.

"I heard," she smiled. "Not much that is a secret in this place. Someone can blow off and in ten minutes I'd hear about from the gossip net. Congratulations though. I'd very glad he's stepped up to some responsibilities."

"Joan it wasn't all his fault… when I came back to the village… I wasn't sure. Perhaps we didn't really understand what the other was saying when I came back?"

Joan held up a hand. "Stop. I don't need to know."

I nodded. "Fine. So anyway I moved in and I will say…"

She raised her eyebrows. "None of my business."

"No, no, Joan, I was going to say that Martin seems very quiet."

"Ah."

"Ah?"

She nodded her white-haired head. "When he was a boy he'd go extremely silent when something was not to his liking."

"Must be me." Was it me? Our close quarters? Having sex on a regular basis? Facing fatherhood?

She chuckled. "Oh Louisa, it could be, but my nephew is a bundle of contradictions. He'll yell and scream and then got dead quiet in the next few seconds." She crossed her arms. "Just don't let him run roughshod over you. I know how he can get when he's upset."

I started to bite my lip. "So the silent treatment means he's upset about something."

Her mouth took a grim set. "Yes, I know. Martin has his own way about him. Unique on the planet. But remember it is an adjustment; living together."

I nodded to her.

"The house is his and you're the interloper, that it? He'll have his boxers all squared away next to the socks I'm sure. You…"

I opened my mouth but stopped. Just how much of our business did I want to air? Joan was Martin's aunt, she knew him better than anyone, but no – not too much. I changed the subject. "He told me about Dr. Montgomery."

"Oh?" Now Joan looked concerned. "What did he say about her?"

"Just the facts actually. Med school and so forth.

Joan shook her head. "Oh. And so forth," she said meaningfully.

"He did say it ended between when she left the country, but I did reply that I thought she would be all over him if he gave her the nod."

She shook her head. "And what did he say to that?"

"Told me… well, he scoffed at the idea."

Joan crossed her arms and lowered her voice. "It's one of the reasons he doesn't drink anymore. Did he tell you that?"

I had been shuffling files on my desk but what she said made me stare up at her. "Really? No, he didn't add that… uhm, detail." Hard to imagine him as a drinker!

Joan nodded. "Not that he needed AA or anything like that but my sister told me he went through a very rough patch. All the more reason he threw himself so intensely into surgery."

"Your sister?" Somehow that was more shocking than an ancient drinking problem. "You have a sister?"

Joan frowned. "Ruth. Between me and Christopher. Martin never mentioned her?"

"No. She's in London?"

"Yes. A psychiatrist; Broadmoor Prison. Loves mucking about with those sorts who are very mucked up." Her finger twirled the air by her temple. "Loony murderers."

"Right." I shook my head. "Someone has to do it." I wondered if my dad had a shrink evaluate him in jail. Likely.

Joan smiled at me. "The schooling smarts went to my older siblings. I barely got past my A-levels. Fresh air, chickens, sheep, and veg always did suit me better," she chuckled. A shadow passed over her. "And my late husband Phil of course."

"So Martin has an Aunt Ruth. Does she come down here often? What's she like?"

Joan sniffed. "A lot like Martin – very analytical. Scares the daylights out of my neighbors when she visits with her pithy comments and insight. Luckily she hasn't been here in years. I'm surprised you never heard about her."

"No." She sounded like fun or perhaps not.

Joan added, "Actually Louisa, Ruth is very smart and caring, just in her own way." She smiled. "Best be off. Need anything? Call."

It was one of the things I wanted to discuss with Martin over dinner but of course the building burned down. I then intended to ask him about his phantom aunt at bedtime, but I lay exhausted and yawning after we got home.

But now it was Saturday and when Martin closed the surgery at lunch, I'd have my chance to dig into his family. Who else was hiding in the shadows?

Martin was speaking rather harshly downstairs to someone as I drew my morning bath.

Author's note:

Blow off – British term for passing gas, breaking wind, or farting.