Chapter 52 – Bedside and Manners
"Ah, Louisa," the Vicar said brightly when I walked into his room. He was propped up in bed with about five pillows behind his back so at lest he could sit up, but the array of IV stands at bedside told otherwise as I could see there were three, no four, tubes plugged into his arms. His white wispy hair stuck out at all angles and his cheeks were stubbled with grey whiskers, but his blue eyes looked at me clearly.
"Vicar! Hello! How are you getting on?"
He shrugged and waved a shaky hand at the medical gear. "Wired for bloody sound. Feel like a bloody pincushion," he muttered.
I held out the flowers and magazines. "Maybe these will cheer you up."
He grinned. "Lovely, right. Ought to be vase about somewhere."
Grunting I squatted down to look under the bedside table. "Ah, here's one," I said as I slowly got myself erect.
"Miss Glasson, you… the uhm… the baby."
He was clearly about to comment on the amazing exploding woman, which I was becoming a gram at a time. "Yes, rather larger, I am."
"No, no, I was about to say don't put yourself out on my account."
"No problem. How could I not? I mean," I looked around the room which held four beds, three occupied. "In hospital, you must get bored. How are you getting on?" I got some water for the vase from a sink by the door and arranged the fresh flowers in it.
"Humph," he answered.
"What's that mean?"
"Just that. Lungs have cleared up," he said. "All that smoke and so on. But it seems Dr. Ellingham cracked one or two of my ribs." He winced as he moved his chest. "Sore."
"Right. I'm sure he didn't; mean to. But you did need CPR. I mean, you weren't breathing at all." I set the flowers on his bedside table and fluffed the flowers. "There."
He sighed. "He broke my hip and now a rib. I ought to keep him well away from me," he laughed, but then his face screwed up. "Ooof. Ought not to laugh. Ribs."
I wondered how to defend Martin and his life-saving actions? "So, what else have they been doing for you?"
"Medicines through these things," he waved at the tubing in his arms. "Physical therapy, respiratory therapy; all that. They said I had a small stroke." A wrinkled finger tapped his cranium. "If I did I can't tell it. Temporary, they say. Shock of the fire."
I tried to smile. "I think I heard about that."
"Likely caused by Ellingham jumping on my chest!"
I pulled his visitor's chair near to his bead and gratefully sat down; giving him the magazines I'd bought.
He ran his hands over the magazines I'd brought. "Good. New ones. I swear most of what they hand out here are months old." His voice dropped. "And I'm quite certain one I saw the other day had the Queen's Coronation in it!*"
I fiddled with the buttons on my coat.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"You do know, or might have been told, that Martin, I mean Dr. Ellingham and a serving boy pulled you out of that flaming building, right?"
His eyes got a distant look. "Might have."
"And I know that you and Martin – are not on the best of terms."
"Hip and ribs," he muttered but then he looked at me sharply. "So I have to thank him for being alive, I suppose."
I cocked my head. "No, no, not saying that. Only… well… maybe…"
The door behind me swung open and Martin walked in. "Louisa? Ah, Vicar," he said.
The Vicar stared fiercely at him. "Ellingham."
I looked from one to the other. "Now, that we're all here…"
Martin nodded. "Yes. Right." He walked to the end of the bed and lifted a thick metal case and swung the cover open. "I see they are treating you for pneumonia."
The Vicar nodded. "You break my ribs and now you're going to be playing doctor as well?"
Martin sighed, dropped the cover closed and glared at him.
Men! So boy-like even at the best of times. What I saw I in the schoolyard was no different; pushing, teasing, name calling. "Vicar, and Martin, can't you?"
To his credit Martin's tone changed from confrontational to informing. "Sorry about the ribs, but I had to administer CPR. For a person of your age, any age over thirty actually, rib fractures - most minor - are common after chest compressions."
The Vicar sighed. "I see."
Changing the subject, I asked Martin, "You've seen Chris?"
He looked at me. "I have."
"And everything's okay?"
Martin nodded. "Yes."
"Something amiss, Ellingham?" the Vicar asked. "Or aren't you happy in the metropolis of Portwenn?"
Martin slowly put the notes back into the rack and crossed to me. "No… yes. I…"
"It's fine Martin," I told him.
He nodded at me, and then turned to the Vicar. "While my time in Portwenn has been – at times – less than idyllic, my job is there. I am your GP."
The Vicar laughed. "Well that's something."
"What? What do you mean Martin?" I blurted out.
Martin's hand stroked my cheek. "I told Chris I am staying in Portwenn… as the GP."
I saw the way he gulped as he said it. "I'm sorry Martin," I whispered to him. "I know you wanted to go up to London; do surgery once more."
"What's that?" the Vicar asked, cupping a veined hand to his ear.
Martin nodded at me and then faced the Vicar more fully. "Appears you're stuck with me."
The Vicar almost smiled. "Ellingham you did save my life I hear, so you do have some uses," he wise-cracked.
I looked at Martin. "Ah. Well, that's good." After his confession the other night I was almost afraid for his sanity, along with his spirits, for he had sounded so forlorn.
He turned his head toward me. "And you're here, uhm there, in Portwenn. And you're going to have… our… baby there." He sighed. "I thought it might be… useful… if I stayed."
"Yes, Martin," I beamed at him. "That would be useful. Very."
Author's Notes:
* Queen Elizabeth II was crowned in 1953.
