Sometimes you can't help wondering about human nature. As gratifying as it is to hear Pippa heaping praise upon Martin, as she wiggles her reattached finger in the air for all of us to admire, I do find myself wishing that perhaps some of this latent enthusiasm might have been shown toward him when he was still allowed to practice. Of course, Alison Lane chooses to remain silent whenever Martin is mentioned; there's certainly no love lost there, and she has an expression on her face like she someone else just ate the last Chocolate Digestive, as she listens to Pippa's enthusiastic spiel. I'm desperate to point out to Alison that, if it weren't for Martin's quick actions, Delph wouldn't be making the name for herself that she currently is on the U.K Women's Pro Wrestling Circuit but, in the spirit of Christmas, I think charitable thoughts, and bite my tongue.
Stu McKenzie keeps his counsel too, I notice; he's another one with a low opinion of my husband, though looking at his long, straggly grey hair, cascading from around the edge of his bald, shiny pate, and over the shoulders of his saggy, oversized, tweed jacket, somewhat uncharitably I think that he could certainly use some personal grooming hints from Martin even if he hasn't needed much in the way of medical attention. Everyone knows that Stu is as tight-fisted as they come but, as I'm transfixed by the curling yellowish collar of his ancient polo shirt, it's obvious why the only menswear store to ever open in Portwenn lasted less than six months because I'm certain that the shirt actually used to be white. It's not even so much that his clothes are old, it's more that, stored in a damp wardrobe and being worn once or twice a year, they have a pungency all of their own.
It is funny, actually, how the particular smell of this hall is so evocative of my childhood. I used to hate coming in here, the air was always so stale and damp, dominated as it was back then by the stench of oilskins, and pipe smoke, and floor wax, and even a vague hint of rendered onions. These days, tobacco pipes have all but disappeared from the mouths of the villagers but, as the repugnant smell of mothballs and Brut aftershave wafts up from Stu's McKenzie's Sunday best, and my eyes began to water, I feel a distinct nasal irritation, and I realise there hasn't really been much of an improvement. Fishing in my pocket for a tissue, I smile, offer the excuse that I should mingle, and make a bee-line back to the door in the faint hope of some fresh air.
"Pregnant lady comin' through!" I hear Morwenna cry gleefully and for a moment I wonder if she is squiffy again, as she was at our wedding, and her own wedding now I come to think about it. Oh to be young again; and not heavily pregnant, I mutter to myself, as the idea of a nice glass of Chardonnay briefly crosses my mind.
Al is blocking the doorway but he turns toward me as he hears his wife's instructions and he nods at me, his face set in a serious frown.
"Louiser, umm, might need you to give me a hand 'ere, if you don't mind...seems like Stewart's lost a bit of confidence and he's 'avin' a bit of a moment in the porch. Do you think we should fetch the doc?"
The village has always had a soft spot for Stewart James, adopted him as one of our own really, ever since he barricaded himself into the public toilets on Christmas Eve, twenty five years ago it must be now. Due to the terrible weather we'd had that year, the Platt was deserted, and no one actually noticed him until the Council cleaners turned up on New Years Eve to perform their perfunctory service, and discovered they couldn't get in. The commotion could be heard by the patrons in the Crab and we'd stood out in the sleety rain and watched Jim Sim and Rev Counter do their best to negotiate with an agitated young man in camo gear and a blacked out face, who nobody had ever seen before. In the end, Bert had carried a plate of fish and chips and a pint of Hicks across to him and that had done the job. A series of handshakes and bartered goods had seen him safe and secure in a little cottage of his own up on the moor and, shortly afterwards, he'd reinvented himself as the local Park Ranger where he'd seemed to really find some sort of fulfilment. It wasn't unusual not to see him for months at a time but, recently, he seemed to be coming into the village a lot more regularly, even on busier days, though it was admittedly a bit of a shock that he should turn up tonight.
"Hi there Stewart." I say softly to him as he stands with his back to the wall, his eyes darting around nervously. "Do you think you might be having a bit of a panic attack then?"
"Ah, Louisa, hi, ah no. No, just a bit anxious all of a sudden. I'm sure I will be alright in a moment. Thanks for asking."
"It'll be the anticipation what's done it." Morwenna adds, a little unhelpfully. "The Portwenn Players perform Live Carols...I'm surprised the doc didn't bring his defibrillator with him, what with the excitement level 'n' all..."
"Yes, thank you, Morwenna." I say, slightly tersely, and I frown at her back as she opens her eyes maniacally wide and abruptly turns one hundred and eighty degrees, disappearing into the crowd.
"You just take your time, now Stewart." I reassure him, calling on everything I recall from my papers on anxiety. "Just come in if you feel up to it and we'll find you somewhere to sit...You're absolutely fine there too, if that's where you want to be for the moment and..."
Suddenly and rather forcefully, the external door flies open. There's a blast of freezing air and a couple of saturated people rush in. A tall woman that I don't recognise strides past me, shedding her hat and coat as she passes, showering me with a spray of moisture. Her face is angular and I notice that she has beautiful skin for her age, and I'm struck by how fit she looks, how determined and confident she appears. Whoever she is, she doesn't look like she has lived a hard life in a Cornish fishing village, that's for certain.
To my great disgust, I do actually recognise the second figure, as she peels off her bright scarlet hat and coat and tosses them at a bemused Stewart as if he's the footman. I'd heard on the grapevine that Carrie Wilson was back in the district and it seemed neither her manners nor her self-awareness have improved as she stands in the porch and gazes around her disapprovingly. When she catches sight of me, she has the audacity to actually look me up and down and I'm certain that I detect a sneer of disgust as her eyes briefly rest on my abdomen. I'm not sure if she knows who I am but, of course, I remember her only too well from when she was previously ensconced up at her ex-husband's hotel. It had been all over the village at the time that she'd set her cap for Martin and I'd even been so unfortunate to witness some of her attempted inveiglements.
I hate to admit it now but she'd really provoked quite a seam of jealousy within me back then and, worse still, every time I'd encountered her she'd made me feel frumpy and awkward and unwelcome. It had been horrible really, watching her use all her feminine wiles to capture Martin's attention, and I always suspected the worst every time I'd seen them together, which seemed to be frequently. Actually, in hindsight, the thought of her and the village Doctor together had made me feel quite miserable but I really should have known better. I should have known Martin better too. In the end, he'd run over her dog, accidentally he insisted, and he had happily admitted to me that he found her an annoying hypochondriac, amongst other things, which was enough to encourage me to ask him to a concert, an evening which spring-boarded us finally into a relationship.
I glance across at Martin now and I smile to myself as I recall how, shortly afterwards, it also resulted in the conception of the little boy who sits so quietly next to him; his mini-me, his tiny doppelgänger, one who so sweetly idolises his father. It's been hard work getting to where we are today as a family but I defy even a dozen Carrie Wilsons to come between us now, even if she has aged rather well and has somehow managed to carry off an exceeding flimsy, low cut dress, despite the weather being so completely foul outside. I stand open-mouthed as she pushes past me, not proceeding very far before she pauses, and spins around theatrically to face the door.
That's the exact moment that everything started to go downhill really. Initially, I'm distracted by the sound of my name, a familiar tone that makes my heart sink, and the blood momentarily runs cold in my veins. But, if I think that the situation has deteriorated, as I shuffled awkwardly around to face the door again, I suddenly feel like I am having the most Bodmin of bad dreams, a colossally horrifying, double-whammy, blast-from-the-past appears before me, the veritable ghosts of wannabe boyfriends who should very much have stayed in the Christmas Past.
Of course I recognised the voice of Danny immediately. It's like fingernails down a blackboard to me now and, as I flash my teeth in a grimace of welcome, I wonder if it's ever going to sink in to his self-absorbed brain that I hate being called 'Lou'. And, though I probably find him more pitifully annoying than anything else these days, like just another mangy seagull after my chips, I have a more pressing reason for not really welcoming his presence again in Portwenn. The greater problem for me is that he aggravates Martin to an unprecedented degree, and there's this ridiculous unspoken rivalry between them which I would have thought was resolved rather easily by the fact that I married Martin and our second child is on the way. But, I realise I didn't handle things that well during Danny's last visit, and in fact I probably made things a lot worse than they needed to be, though I had sent him on his way, under no illusion that he meant anything to me. But Martin has the memory of an elephant, and rather a mistrustful, cynical view of people's motives, so it's not surprising that I am anything but happy to see the man that my husband disparagingly refers to as 'the architect' back among us.
I am rather surprised to see Mark Mylow though, I must admit. I'd always had a soft spot for him, like a cheerful stray dog; a slightly overweight Labrador that had wandered around the village, grateful for any attention, befriending the tourists and always on the look out for a new owner. He was part of the village furniture really before he left so suddenly so it was a bit of a shock when he'd come back in the summer and I'd barely recognised him. Well, that's the disconcerting thing really, he'd lost that bloom of youth and he now appeared just as a fairly nondescript, middle aged man, but he seemed almost more naive and immature than when he'd fled the village all those years ago, but now somehow missing the sweetness he'd possessed, the sensitivity to the individual needs of the inhabitants he'd been so respected for. He'd actually even made me feel a little uncomfortable when he'd virtually ambushed me up at the school, there was just an undertone of something awkward going on that I couldn't quite put my finger on, a look in his eyes that didn't seem quite appropriate. When I'd told Martin that night about our strange encounter, he'd looked suddenly alarmed, and subsequently, I'd caught him staring at me several times during the evening, his expression varying between thoughtful and concerned.
And now they'd both arrived together, out of nowhere, and I stand there momentarily, not wanting to seem unfriendly, but not really wanting to speak to either of them. My hands go automatically to my ever expanding bump and I can see what they are both thinking. Before I am forced into any conversation though, there is a large crash behind me and I look at Stewart with concern as he drops the red coat and hat to the floor and rapidly evacuates from his position, the front door thudding closed behind him. It seems as if Sally Tishell has knocked over a bench and there is now some sort of ruckus developing but before I can make out what has happened, Roger Fenn's caustic tones come crunching bitterly over the speakers and, obediently, I excuse myself and make my way over towards where Martin and James are sitting.