He loiters long after he has outstayed his welcome, waiting apparently for someone called Cleary to drive him to Truro Hospital. Louisa works around him, wiping down surfaces, asking him to lift each leg as she mops the floor beneath his feet. Every so often our glances meet, furtive, conspiratorial, her eyes sparkling with a smile she dare not show. And all the time he sits there, garrulous and self-satisfied, my mind is elsewhere, unidentifiable emotions infusing my every conscious thought. What an inexplicable thing it is to be so much in another's thrall, to feel such eagerness, such barely contained excitement, to be akin to that small boy again, permitted a day at the Science Museum alone. The room seems to shift, as if it shimmers, and I feel a prickle of anticipation, a relief greater even than that felt after a successful resuscitation. Mesmerised and almost overawed, I watch her body sway as she scrubs vigorously at the table.

Inevitably, my patience with this Mr. Large evaporates and I make no effort to conceal my irritation, upending the other chair loudly on to the table next to him, demonstrating that he is clearly in the way. But, still, he lingers, in the door way now, and it becomes obvious that we must all depart together or this man will not leave at all. Desperate for more time alone with her, instead I find myself carrying out the rubbish, and placing it in a battered old metal bin, while he saunters slowly down the path beside her, covering the ground slowly with his strange, rolling sort of gait. To my relief, he turns left, shuffling up the hill away from the harbour and, more importantly, in the opposite direction to us. Louisa smiles at me ruefully, over the top of a carton of jumble.

"He means well." She says, and I grunt with no hint of acquiescence.

"The man's a time waster. Here, let me carry that for you."

She responds with the sweetest of smiles, so soft and encouraging that, instantly, my limbs are lighter, the carton I take from her, weightless. A bird sings atop an ivy-covered post, a wind chime ripples gently on a nearby verandah and, from somewhere in the distance, I am visited by the strains of the Radetzky March, incongruously robust and lively in this sleepy little village. Unconsciously, we keep time, Louisa and I, her complexion so fresh, her cheeks blushed by the cold, so lovely, so unaffected, as she points out all the houses, naming almost every occupant, familiar with what each of them do. As we walk, small architectural details reveal themselves, carved stone nameplates, topiaries and colourful pots of flowers. An antique pond-yacht is displayed in a circular window, we pass a pretty Georgian cottage, a striking indigo-blue front door. I suppose these features have always been present but, if so, it appears I've never noticed before.

"This way." She says, tugging on my sleeve.

Through another narrow lane, windows so close to the thoroughfare that the curtains must be perpetually closed. Down to the Plat where the sun, at its highest point, is doing its best to heat the dark grey stone, its tepid warmth faint across my shoulders. Sea air fills my lungs: clean, fresh, even mildly invigorating. Light glistens on the water, choppier beyond the seawall, undulating gently close to shore. I pop the boot latch and squeeze the box into the remaining space, alongside the scurvy-inducing contents that we've collected: cans of Spotted Dick, steak and kidney pie, baked beans, and tinned meats of every description. Honestly, it's a miracle Terry Glasson isn't suffering from chronic malnutrition, I think, as I glance across at her and, for a moment anyway, it seems important that I should make that point.

But I'm struck by the manner with which she now presses herself against the side of the car, her appearance an arresting mix of apprehension and adolescent defiance. And, oddly, suppressing my disapproval of her father's diet is far easier than I'd thought.

"I think we should go…" she says, her eyes darting around the Platt before they come to rest, imploringly, on me. "I could murder a cup of tea…"

I nod, distracted by the way the breeze ruffles the soft dark strands of her hair, framing her face, so utterly perfect in profile. I couldn't care less where we go as long as I can just be alone with her. My abdomen clenches and I swallow hard. Joan's cottage is far from ideal but it does, at least, offer a modicum of privacy.

"Martin! You did get the sandwiches?" She asks, suddenly, throwing her hands up as if she were waiting to catch some sort of imaginary ball. Again I nod, narrowing my eyes at her, surprised that she deems it necessary to ask. "Yes, of course."

Before she can answer, a woman with two small children wanders past, gripping their hands as they tow her toward the waterline. Louisa greets her with a vague hello, and beams at her vaguely sticky-looking offspring. Here and there, tourists dawdle past shopfronts, beady-eyed seagulls barely moving out of their way. Outside the Slipway, most of the plastic chairs are empty, a small dog wanders unchecked beneath the tables, it's nose determinedly pressed to the ground. Even though winter is almost upon us, for a Saturday, the place seems deserted. Two oilskin-clad fisherman with their backs to us, engaged in an animated conversation, are the only figures in our proximity. For a moment, the sleepy Portwenn of my childhood seeps back into my memory; torpid, safe and unexciting, the waves lapping on on the sand as they have for the previous hundred millennia, rolling drab, unremarkable pebbles up and down the beach.

But, as she thrusts her hands into the pockets of her jacket, it's apparent to me that Louisa no longer feels completely safe nor comfortable in this village. Generally, I may be somewhat obtuse but I am trained to recognise degrees of agitation, and I can't help but notice the fidgeting, the breathing, the glancing over my shoulder warily as she scans the expanse of the Plat. Thanks to my aunt, I'm aware that Louisa did suffer some harassment as a result of her father's criminal activities and, while his lack of principle is appalling, that anyone would sit in judgement of his daughter because of it is, frankly, ludicrous. Such worthless criticism shouldn't be taken seriously, it really shouldn't cause her even a moment's concern. A haggard and raw-boned populace, ignorant and small minded; in my experience there's not a soul in this village whose opinion should matter to her, there's not a single person who could hold a candle to her, her character is utterly beyond reproach.

But, as I look at her, watchful as she clutches at the strap of her bag, I realise that, of course, Louisa is not me, and it's almost inevitable that she would take the irksomeness of these people entirely to heart. And it pains me immensely to see her now so cautious, with an air of resigned disappointment, her usual enthusiasm nowhere to be seen. I sigh, only too familiar with the notion of guilt by association, that assumption of culpability due to an unfortunate genetic connection. Yet I am utterly clueless about what I should do to support her. How bloody helpless it all makes me feel, understanding her sadness yet finding myself so powerless to help. My god, it's frustrating, wanting to fix things so fervently but knowing that I possess neither the skill nor the talent to really improve her mood.

"I've got an idea." I venture, feeling my way tentatively along an unfamiliar path. "If it's not too windy…perhaps we…umm… we might eat in the gazebo when we get back to the farm?"

Somewhere behind me a child squeals with excitement. A dog barks. A battered white Bedford van screams down Fore Street, apparently in first gear. Louisa turns to watch its progress and, when she looks back at me, she smiles.

"That would be nice. If it's not too windy…"

"Yes, of course…there's not much of a breeze though, here, is there?"

"No. It is up on the hill though…"

I incline my head in reluctant agreement. "True. I hate to think what state it might be in…"

Trying to be convivial is incredibly hard work but she nods, even if her expression is rueful, and I feel encouraged.

"It can be a bit, you know, cobwebby…to be fair, I don't think Joan really uses it much, even in summer…" She warns.

"Mm…knowing Auntie Joan she'll have nailed up some chicken wire by now, and turned it into an extra hen house. No doubt motivated by the price of eggs going up to a pound a dozen…."

She laughs, and, just for a moment, glances back toward the sea, eyes sparkling, a momentary glimpse of her blithe and vivacious self. Buffeted by the breeze, slim strands of hair are whipped about her face, laying across her cheeks and catching in her mouth. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back, shaking it slowly from side to side, liberating the errant locks in the way that would come so naturally to that free-spirited, beach combing child that I recall. Running wild, up and down this rugged Cornish coast, independent, unconstrained, relishing the salt wind, the open spaces, the warm sun on her youthful skin. I almost envy her that. Nothing like the silent, solitary, little boy, in long socks and a school tie, clutching his magnifying glass, as much a fish out of water as the miserable specimen he'd caught in his jam jar.

If I need any reminder of why I am no longer content with a life of solitude, of silence, that simple toss of her head is enough to bewitch me all over again. Incredible that, even when life rounds on her, when circumstances back her into a corner, still, she exudes such warmth, such bravery, so much strength of spirit. I lean toward her, drawn by what feels like a undeniable force, one stronger even than gravity. Entirely appropriate that I should have been so crushed, imagining my life without her. No surprise at my utter devastation, thinking that I'd never see her again. I raise my hand to touch her face, to curve my hand around her jaw.

"Louisa…" I murmur, my voice low and hoarse.

"Oh, god, no!" She squeaks, with enough vigour that I'm forced to abandon my attempt at an embrace, finding myself clutching at thin air as she ducks away from me, and scrambles madly to open the car door. Crushed and confused, my face burns with humiliation, my heart sinks like a stone.

"Doctor!" A warble rings out across the Plat, shrill and insistent, distracting and intrusive. "Doc-tor!"

"For god's sake, what now?" I growl, my skin still prickling, assuming the fierce persona of the overworked, on-call consultant, woken in the middle of the night, a sycophantic, ill-prepared house surgeon stammering at me down the phone. "Who IS that?"

Louisa rolls her eyes. "Only the person who told me to my face, in front of half the bloody village, that the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree…Martin, I think we need to go."

"Yes, of course." I reply briskly, glancing over my shoulder again, frowning as the woman advances upon us rapidly, moving with a curious half-skip, half-walk, hair springing up and down with each cantering stride.

Perhaps it makes sense now, Louisa's reaction to my advances but, it all just adds to my burgeoning frustration. Frowning, I fumble in several pockets for my keys, in a desperate attempt to let her into the car, only to realise that, of course, the damn thing was already unlocked. As the door locks click resoundingly shut, a sodding alarm goes off, warning me that the boot lid is still open, and I swear, as Louisa tugs fruitlessly at the door.

"Doctor! If I could just…?" The woman says, suddenly upon us, gaping at me in the most disconcerting manner as she attempts to catch her breath. "…have…a minute?…On a pro-fessional matter?"

"No time." I reply, curtly, taking a step backwards, and glowering down at her. Whoever she is, the woman has absolutely no concept of personal space.

"We have met before? Sally Tishell? Mrs? Registered Pharmacist?" She insists. "Just a moment of your….your time?…doctor, please?"

I give her a cursory glance. An unremarkable blonde, mid to late thirties, with bleeding lipstick, a recent whiplash injury and a predatory gaze; I'm only too familiar with her type but she herself is utterly unknown to me. I feel her hand upon my arm, her fingers pinching into my flesh, yet she simpers and fawns like a half-rate coquette. God, I do detest it when people attempt to suck up, when they finish each sentence in an upward inflection, when they paw at me, and demand my attention. Ghastly.

"What do you want?" I growl, glancing across at Louisa, her arms crossed as she leans against the car, a rather dubious expression on her face.

As our eyes meet, she arches her eyebrows and, god help me, I feel it in my loins. Short skirt, long legs, honey-toned skin, that twinkle in her eye, that hint of a smirk. She turns her head away, biting at the inside of her cheek, but not before something has passed between us; intimacy, amusement, a mutual understanding perhaps that this woman is as mad as a box of frogs? I feel another incremental raising of my blood pressure, another half a degree of heat emanating from my flesh. She is so beautiful, I simply cannot look away.

"I just wanted to say that Doctor Sim told me what happened? And I think what you both did for Mary Large was absolutely marvellous…?"

I exhale sharply. Damn the woman for still being here, obsequious and adulatory, her voice like a squirt of liquid nitrogen applied directly to the groin.

"Right." I growl dismissively, turning my back on her, only to discover that she follows me, scurrying along to remain firmly at my side.

"And, on behalf of the village, I just wanted to say thank you?…you're probably aware, doctor, that Mary Large is a pillar of this community…decent…honest…trustworthy. And from a reliable old Cornish family….one that's been here many generations…" She says, pausing dramatically. When she speaks again, her tone is accusatorial. "…Not like some…fly-by-night….English….Ring-Ins….with…WICKEDNESS… in their blood!"

Beside me, Louisa stands upright, her chest rising, her brow creasing into an incredulous scowl. Odd how, usually, other people's conflict sees me unmoved, unaffected, disinterested even, yet the unfairness of it all is etched upon her face. Her jaw clenches, her eyes blink, and I hurt for her, I feel myself wincing inside. Louisa, consoler of sick and distraught children, defender of the underdog, so generous of spirit, kindness always her first instinct, a propensity to find the good in everyone. Without a second thought, I reach for the passenger door and, holding my arm out toward Louisa, I gesture that she should get in.

She raises her chin defiantly, fixing the woman with a steely eyed glare, her spirit still undaunted. God, I love that about her, so plucky, so effervescent, so brimming with fire. As she she stands her ground, she nods, her eyes flashing dark and tempestuous, and for a moment, again, I can't look away. While I am against wickedness in principle, whatever faint residue remains in Louisa's vascular system only emerges at moments when acquiescing to it is always to my very great advantage. Strange how things that once I might have viewed as wanton, seem quite natural when one is in love, and feels so intrinsically safe. I've stared too long and now she smiles at me, equal parts defiant, self conscious and shy. I feel the muscles of my face contract, my lips twitch, and I experience some sort of euphoric rush. By some miracle I seem to have been granted a second chance and the realisation is invigorating, I feel emboldened and terrifyingly unrestrained.

I glance over my shoulder, at the woman, her shapeless, verdigris-coloured cardigan flapping in the breeze, gazing at me expectantly with watery eyes, an aimless dusting of powder failing to conceal the patches of xeroderma on her face.

"I've run a number of tests, Mrs. Tishell," I tell her in a crisp, authoritative tone. "And Louisa's wickedness levels always come back as highly satisfactory…I really wouldn't worry about it if I were you…"

It's as if someone has struck her, the woman crumples so visibly, her mouth shocked into the shape of a pessary ring. I turn away from her and when I glance back she has spun around upon her heel, staggering across the cobbles in her white patent footwear

"Shall we go?"I ask Louisa gently, her expression bemused as I help her into the car.

My hand is on the small of her back, beneath her jacket, my fingers seeking out the warm, tantalising strip of bare skin that her clothing inevitably fails to cover. A hint of her fragrance, light and delicate, hangs in the air and, oddly, all I want to do is breathe it in. I wait, unusually solicitous and patient, as she fiddles with her belt, cocooned in that which almost feels like exhilaration, and such relief too, at the return of a familiar routine; her sunglasses on, an insolent toss of her head, the smooth flesh of her thighs creamy and provocative against the black leather upholstery. Her mouth curves into a smile, lips parted as she murmurs a breathy thank you and, gently, I press the door closed.