Martin had been more quiet than usual since finding out about Joan, more reflective; even though he had closed the surgery until after the funeral, he had spent a great deal of time in the consulting room with the door closed. I longed to sit in there with him, to pull him into my arms and hold him, but I sensed that wasn't what he needed. He needed time to be alone with his thoughts. And so as hard as it was for me to keep from intruding, I left him alone.
The evening before the funeral, we sat on the sofa with the television on, but neither of us were really watching it. I held Martin's hand and he absentmindedly stroked my thumb with his own, over and over. I could tell his emotions were close to the surface, and he swallowed reflexively, his jaw clenching and unclenching.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" he finally asked.
"I'm just making sure you're okay," I answered.
"I'm fine."
I tried a different tack. "What are you thinking about?" I asked.
He sighed. "Nothing in particular, really."
I made to kiss him, but he was stiff and hesitant. "Please, don't," he whispered, his eyes pleading.
My heart ached for him. "Martin, don't shut me out," I told him gently, placing my hand on his cheek. "I know you're hurting. It's not good to keep all that hurt inside you. You need to let it out."
"I don't…think I know how," he said honestly.
"Why don't you tell me something about Joan…something I might not know about," I suggested.
He thought a minute, and then he cleared his throat. "Um, I don't know what Auntie Joan told you about my childhood."
"Only the basics—that you used to come to Portwenn during the summers and on holidays."
"Yes, my parents always had better things to do that didn't include me; they went to Spain on holiday a lot, that sort of thing. I always got in the way, so they were glad to have somewhere to send me.
"I remember when I was about nine years old, I went home first for a night, before I took the train to come here. That morning when I woke up, I had found that I had wet the bed," he went on quietly. "It was something that happened quite frequently when I was younger. Well, my father went into a rage and beat me with his belt before putting me on the train. And when I got to Auntie Joan's there were…well, there were marks where he had hit me."
I felt my eyes fill with tears. "Oh, love…"
"When Auntie Joan and Uncle Phil saw the marks, neither one of them wanted to send me back. They, uh, actually looked into seeing whether they could adopt me."
This was a surprise to me…Joan had never told me anything about it. "What happened? Why weren't they able to?"
"Oh, my parents wouldn't have it…they couldn't have their good social standing tarnished with such a scandal. They also had the money to hire the best solicitors in London if Auntie Joan and Uncle Phil had pressed the matter. So they were forced to give up and send me home. And that was the last time I was allowed to come here to visit.
"Of course, since I was just a child, I didn't know any of the details of this until much later. My father never gave me a reason why I couldn't come back, so for the longest time I just assumed Auntie Joan and Uncle Phil had decided I was too much to handle and didn't want to bother with me anymore. Auntie Joan finally told me the whole story when I came back here to live from London."
I had had the misfortune of meeting Martin's parents not long after I had begun working at the surgery. His mother was very cold, never saying a word to me, and barely even acknowledging Martin's presence. His father was a different matter—he did nothing but belittle and insult Martin the entire time. I sensed more had happened between them than Martin had let on, but he never went into the details with me. I just knew that while they were there, Martin had been on edge and miserable.
Hearing that they had been neglectful and abusive to him when he was a child infuriated me. It was no wonder Martin had such a hard time showing his emotions.
"I'm so sorry," I told him, putting my arms around him. "You didn't deserve to be treated that way…no child deserves to be treated that way. I wish things could have been different and you could have stayed with Joan."
He shrugged. "It was one of those things that just had to be gotten through," he said stoically. "After that, I just spent the holidays at school when I could and at home with a nanny when school was closed. Frankly, I found it more agreeable than spending the time with my parents."
That night after we had gone to bed, I tentatively moved closer to Martin and kissed him gently on the lips. "Is this okay?" I asked softly. He returned the kiss with a passion that surprised me, and soon had me breathless and shivering with need. Our lovemaking was fervent and carnal and loud and unlike any other time we had been together; it was sex for the sole purpose of release, nearly devoid of any of the tenderness it usually possessed. Maybe it was Martin's way of expelling some of the emotion he had been bottling up, but it was a completely different experience. Afterwards, he fell asleep with his arms and legs tangled with mine, his cheek resting on the top of my head. It took me much longer to fall asleep. I was mourning for the sweet little soul of the boy Martin once was, the soul that was so mistreated by the people who were supposed to love and nurture it.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Martin had taken on the responsibility of arranging the funeral with his usual business-like efficiency. We both agreed there was no need for an elaborate service, as Joan would have appreciated something more intimate and informal. We just wanted time for her friends and loved ones to say a few words if they wished, and a place to display all the beautiful flowers we were already starting to receive from well-wishers. I also had an idea of how I wanted to honor her memory.
"Martin, do you think it would be all right if I sang at the funeral?" I had asked him. There had been a song in my head for days, one that perfectly summed up my feelings for Joan.
"Yes, I think that would be…lovely," he had answered softly.
And so, after everyone had said all they wanted to say about Joan, I sat down at the piano and pulled myself as close to the keys as my growing belly would allow. I took a deep breath and willed myself not to break down until the end of the song; still, I could feel the tears in my throat, threatening to choke me. I dared not glance at the congregation, especially at Martin's grief-stricken face, or I would completely lose it. All right, my Joan…this is for you.
I played the first few chords of the song and began to sing.
Love, take my hand, help me see with the dawn
that those who have left have not gone
But they carry on as stars looking down
As nature's sons and daughters of the heavens.
You will not ever be forgotten by me
In the procession of the mighty stars your
name is sung and tattooed on my heart
There I will carry, carry, carry you forever.*
You could hear a pin drop in the church at first, but slowly I began to hear sniffling and then a few people crying softly. I managed to make it until the last chord was played before I began crying myself. When I looked over at the congregation, Martin was nowhere to be found.
*From the song "Carry" by Tori Amos