I take a circuitous route back toward the refreshment table, skirting the walls of the hall, eager to avoid any further unnecessary interaction. The lesser of very many evils, Roger Fenn is burrowing into a cupboard below the stage, egged on by an excitable, and now clean-shaven Miles Green. Feeling less visible here than anywhere else, I loiter, watching as he retrieves one aluminium box and then another, until he almost disappears behind the haphazard stack. When, finally, he emerges, backwards and on his hands and knees, he is triumphant, miscellaneous power cords looped across his shoulders.
"Seems like everyone forgot about this little lot." He says cheerfully, his eyes absurdly small as he peers at me through thick, high minus lenses. "Must have been gathering dust under here since poor old Caroline Bosman was sectioned."
I nod indifferently, and step out of his way, fixed upon the Fire Exit, where I can hide in the shadows and wait for Louisa. Amidst catcalls and raucous laughter, chair legs scrape across the floor as what remains of the seating is pushed aside. The stage lights are extinguished and, immediately a cheer goes up. Voices are raised, a glass breaks, utter pandemonium threatens. In the gloom, it's harder to make out faces, people huddle tightly together; it's almost indiscernible now where one person ends and the next begins. So ghastly in its familiarity, suddenly I am back at some appalling student party, dragged there by Chris Parsons when he still had the ridiculous notion that I was merely shy. It all comes flooding back, and the disdain I felt then has not diminished one iota. Why would anyone do this to themselves willingly, I can't fathom it? Surrendering ones dignity, compromising ones judgement, and relinquishing any sense of self-control? I sigh heavily, shake my head, and retreat further into the darkness.
So much about this village renders me incredulous, I count off the diabetics throwing back the punch like there is no tomorrow. No one takes responsibility for their own health, every meal a celebration of highly refined carbohydrates, every plate literally swimming in fat. All around me, Coeliacs, ischemia, chronic heart conditions, and not a modification to lifestyle or diet in sight. So many years frustrated by the blasé approach, the point blank refusal to listen. As if to illustrate my point, the hulking figure of Eddie Rix approaches, and I flatten myself against the door, in desperate hope of invisibility.
"Evening Doc." He bellows, and my heart sinks.
I squeeze out a grunt, my chin on my tie, my eyes following his progress, curious at his painful, lumbering gait. He looks even more like a walrus than I remember, appearing now to move with the awkwardness of a marine mammal on land too.
"Hang on a minute. Why are you limping?" I bark after him, shouting to make myself heard above the growing cacophony.
His wife pauses in front of me, the odour of coconut oil wafting up at me as she leans in rather closely.
"Spurs…" She mutters, in a stage whisper.
I turn, and frown at him. "What? Bone spurs?"
She laughs and her husband looks rather sheepish. "Pretty certain they were made of metal, Doc. Cut clean through the latex…really didn't expect that…"
"As sharp as a bleddy spear gun they were.." Eddie chimes in and I hope he can't see me wince.
My gaze shifts from one to the other. "Right. I see. And what did they say at the hospital?"
"Ah, well, we went up to Wadebridge, see, since it was a Tuesday morning. It's a different fella every time up there, it's one of those….what do you call 'em…group practices?"
"Yes." I reply through a firmly clenched jaw. It seems Doctor shopping is not confined only to those who seek to procure prescription medications illicitly.
"Fourteen stitches altogether. That cooled him down a bit…" Mrs Rix says and she rolls her eyes.
"It didn't half bleed, Doc." Eddie injects, sorrowfully, shuffling away.
I glance down, surreptitiously, at his legs, a hundred appalling scenarios suddenly spring to mind. Squeezing my eyes shut to compose myself, awkwardly I clear my throat.
"Well…ummm…Keeping your stitches dry will…ahh…will aid the healing process..."
But they have moved away, her thin arm curled around his expansive waistline, supporting him as he moves gingerly along, his thighs spread wide apart. I observe them for a few strides before I turn away, resigned. All around me, the incessant thump of bass grows ever more insistent. Worse still, there's now a seizure-inducing strobe light and, somewhere, in the darkness, a male voice whoops like a cowboy. Arms wave in the air, a seething mass of village flesh moves as one, bouncing up and down on the poorly sprung oak floor until the whole building seems to ripple with the vibration. The intermittent light makes everything seem jerky, paroxysmal and unreal, I turn on my heel but I can't quite tell where I am. Gripping the glass tightly, lest it gets knocked from my hand, I edge around the crowd toward the direction I assume is the main door. The noise is deafening, the flickering light disorienting and I'm forced to leap out of the way as a figure bounces past me, concerned to note it's Stewart, his shirt open to the waist.
Screeching laughter as a conga line ensues. The postman appears before me, dressed idiotically as an elf. More alarmingly, the Estate Agent appears to be chasing him, holding a sprig of mistletoe aloft. An inflatable snowman dances past, held firmly in the arms of Nick da Silva. Such asinine behaviour, so mindless, so immature; Am I the only one here who hasn't lost his mind? Someone clutches at me, clinging to my bicep, and I realise it's a woman's hand. I'm not sure why but I assume it is Louisa, perhaps a case of wishful thinking on my part. But, she would never cling to me as savagely as this, she would never claw at me and attempt to haul me to one side. When a lumpy package is thrust into my hands, the extent of my error is horribly obvious. By the time I hear the voice, it's too late to seek escape.
"Jugged hare, seaweed and wild mushroom pasty, Doc-tor. Traditional Christmas recipe."
Instantly, I freeze, plunged beneath an icy shower of dismay. It is Mrs. Tishell that gazes up at me, her covetous face looming at me from the darkness, appearing and disappearing to the beat of the pulsating light. I pull away but she follows, her grip on my lapel like a raptor's talon. I feel her pressing herself against me amidst a cloud of mephitic odours: talcum powder, mothballs, garlic, and damp wool. If my grandmother had ever hugged me, it would surely have felt like this. Without resorting to brute strength, the only option seems to be to stand as tall as possible, resisting her advances by fending off her hands. Amidst all this noise and licentiousness and confusion, I bellow at her to make myself heard.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Tishell! I never eat game."
Her face, when it reappears in a flash of white light, is perplexed, disappointed. "It's not really game, is it? Well, I suppose it is but I know Louisa's not much of a housekeeper and I don't like to think of your cupboards being empty. Not at this time of the year. It's a travesty."
I scowl down at her, oddly infuriated, my fingers clenched, recalling my wife in her first trimester, nauseated to the point where she struggled to keep even a dry cracker down. Juggling her studies, sharing equally in the care of our son, never once complaining, no matter how many times I discovered her, pale and wan, crumpled over the basin in the bathroom. Even though I'm cognisant of the the brain chemistry behind Mrs. Tishell's delusions, she doesn't make it easy for me to show understanding and patience, not least with the thinly veiled insults she takes delight in hurling at my wife. And her proximity makes me so uncomfortable; I am a happily married man, with a child, and another on the way, and still she persists with this unhealthy and embarrassing obsession.
"There really is no need." I insist, my tone now icy, raising my chin and glowering down at her as I attempt to prevent her hand from snaking any further up my chest.
"Sorry Doc-tor Ellingham! What did you say?" She shrieks back and I growl impatiently, bending my head toward her so I can make my position crystal clear.
"We're done here Mrs. Tishell." I bark as, once again, she attempts to the force the pasty on me, this time pushing it insistently against my sternum.
It feels like brick wrapped in oily brown paper and I glance down, concerned for my tie and my suit coat, having just had them both dry cleaned. And a moment is all it takes, I am distracted for long enough that she pounces. Her hand is on the back of my head, her fingers digging into my scalp. Before I can free myself, her mouth covers mine; her lips hard and cold, her tongue whipping about my soft palate like a frenzied salamander. Sour breath fills my nose and my throat, and it's clear that she's suffering from dry mouth, probably a side effect of whatever medication she is on. It's enough to make me gag helplessly, a retch so violent that she hesitates and I stagger backwards, spinning away. Frantically, I raise my hand to wipe across my mouth, and that's when I realise that I'm still clinging to Louisa's glass of punch. Without a second thought, I pour the liquid down my throat, swilling it around like I am gargling lidocaine. The flavour is indescribable, sickly sweet, organic, mossy, the most ghastly thing I've ever tasted. But still preferable to the residue of a deranged pharmacist persisting on my lips.
Desperate now to escape, I dodge around an oblivious Al and Morwenna, who are locked in a shameless embrace. All around me, hanging tinsel, and idiotic reindeer antler hats bedecked with gaudy LEDs; too much noise, too little common sense and my instinct is to flee. The hall door is opened, casting a triangular wedge of feeble light into the hall. Bert sneaking a case of his whisky in illicitly but I have no time to deliver a lecture, I have regained my bearings and I stride toward the exit. But the distance I need to travel doesn't seem to get any less, no matter how many steps I take. I'm aware of a strange sensation, something discomfiting enveloping me. Light-headed and jittery, it takes an age to understand that my foot seems entangled; I tug feebly, my legs like jelly, persisting for what seems ages until the source if the restraint eventually gives way.
At that very minute, the music stops and then the crowd begins to jeer. Somebody behind me laughs and I look up in a daze, only to be confronted by Stewart, dangling a plug from each of his hands.
"Afraid that was you, Doc!" He says, inclining his head as if to reprimand me, his expression admonishing and tight-lipped.
"Sorry…" I mutter because, suddenly, I don't want to be referred to as a tosser. Staring back at him I realise with shock, I almost care what he thinks.
A fluorescent wall light flickers into life, startling me back into the present. Without the deafening music, conversation again starts to hum and I look around for Louisa, familiar faces floating like bubbles up from the gloom. Mel from Portwenn Tots, her husband Graham on her lap, Debbie Sparrock, Cameron Paris, Malcom Raynor, Irene Moore. Unusual that their names should come to me instantly, even odder that it precedes my recollection of their medical conditions. A woman screeches with laughter and, out of nowhere, a beaming Caitlin offers me a napkin. My gratitude is out of all proportion, and I feel strangely inclined to shake her hand.
But before my eyes, she just disappears, perspective shifts, objects start to swim. In a brief moment of lucidity, I wonder whether there might have been something in the punch but, even then, I can't think what on earth should be done. Everyone has imbibed with such unbridled enthusiasm, even now Mark Mylow attempts to fill his glass from an empty bowl, his hand trembling on the ladle. Looking at his perplexed face though, too dim witted to tip the vessel and claim the dregs, I do feel rather less disparaging toward him than usual. In fact, I am actually almost sympathetic. Perhaps it's because he seems so starkly alone, so obviously thwarted, perhaps it's because I recall how it felt to love Louisa from a distance. To be simply too frightened to act, never prepared to risk the faint hope that one clings to. And just as I did so intently, and for so many years, I wonder now where she's got to and, uncomfortably, who she's with.
The light seems softer now though, the shadows more sepia than stark. I lift my chin and scan the crowd, a sea of bobbing heads. Almost every one of them passed through my consulting rooms when I was practicing; to a man, irritating, ignorant, always thinking that they knew better. Never washing their hands, nor sneezing into their handkerchiefs, the village a virtual Petrie dish for viruses and bacteria. But now as I gaze upon them, they drift into a mirage-like haze and I experience something that feels like benevolence. Everyone is just doing their best, Martin, how many times has Louisa reminded me of that? Her way of comforting a difficult man, so often aggravated, or disheartened, weighed down by the burden of care. And all those times she's had to listen to me, railing at them, insisting they mind their own business, calling them impertinent, appalled by their interference and bottomless ignorance. Of course, she'd tried to explain, the village operates as a collective. Martin, it's how we've survived for hundreds of years. Perhaps she is right, I mean, just look at them now, gathered together, so much puerile amusement gleaned from nothing but noise and sugar, and being with one another. God, look at the curate too, her arm around Stewart. He looks so relaxed, as if he belongs, and I feel like none of the rest of it matters, like I am finally resigned to this place.
The room shifts again. People seem to hover and, as if by magic, Louisa emerges from the crowd, her ponytail jaunty and swinging. My god, that face, that luminous smile. Look at her, saying the right thing, making people feel comfortable, making them feel like they're important. I remember how it felt just to bask in a moment of her attention. A smile would sustain me for a week, fuelling long nights lying awake, imagining what I'd do if I ever had the chance. Still, now, watching her approach, I'm almost swamped by an enormous surge of love for her; I feel it in my loins, my head, my heart, a dull thrum as insistent as a pulse. To fall for her so deeply, while simultaneously diagnosing acute glaucoma; not something I expected out of life, not to be broadsided so completely as I was. I have to tell her but now, as then, I am as inarticulate as a schoolboy, I can only exhale heavily, gazing at her, intoxicated, as she tucks her arm through mine.
"There you are." She says, cheerfully. "I've been looking everywhere for you, I was starting to think you'd gone off without me…"
"No, of course not." I say helplessly, the incandescence of her smile almost blinding.
My hand goes to her face, but it doesn't seem to matter that I seem so devoid of self control, I need to feel the softness of her skin, as if to confirm that something so beautiful is actually real. How is it possible to be so feminine, so tactile and beguiling, to feel so perfect wherever I might put my hands. God, I don't care a jot if someone sees me touching her in public. I am entirely unperturbed, she's my wife and we're married, she's heavily pregnant, surely that provides an inkling of what goes on in private? Ridiculous to care what people think anyway. Ridiculous. God, I feel sorry for all of them, really sorry, all those unfortunate men who don't have a wife like Louisa. Look at Danny Steele, London bloody architect, his arm around the Wilson woman, his eyes glazing over as she blathers on, caring about nothing, no one, only about herself.
She really is appalling and it feels like I'm smirking as he glances in our direction. His turn to be jealous, because he bloody well must be. His turn to know the agony of seeing Louisa with someone else, because she is you know, she's still Mrs. Ellingham you smug, self satisfied, little arse. But, as our eyes meet, there's one thing I'm damned sure he will never understand and that's how it felt, knowing he was in cardio-pulmonary collapse, knowing that I was obligated under oath to save him, yet bitterly aware that, with the aggravating tosser alive and well, I didn't stand a chance with the only woman I've ever loved.
"What happened to my drink then?" Louisa asks and I am utterly distracted.
For a divine moment, nothing else matters, there is no one else in the world but the two of us. All sound is muffled, we are bathed in gentle light. Would it really hurt to kiss her now, her mouth seems so inviting? I lean in, transfixed as it curves into a smile, my body suddenly weightless, the floor falling away beneath my feet.
"Martin?" She says, raising her eyebrows at me.
Bloody hell, what did happen to her drink? I had her glass, I'm sure I did. I stare back at her, open mouthed, perplexed, and then I have a faint recollection. "Umm. Yes. No. Sorry…I did get you a refill but then I…umm…I think I drank it."
"You drank it?" She asks and she laughs, indicating her disbelief with a tiny shake of her head.
And I want to laugh, too, at how ridiculous this all is. Life is so short, if people want to dance, and hug each other, is it really anyone's business but their own? If People want to drink punch, does it really matter? If I want be physically demonstrative with my wife in public, perhaps I damn well will. My wife. My wife. Martin Ellingham's wife. Like any phrase repeated, it sounds like nonsense, it can't be real. But she is standing here in front of me, so beautiful. So very beautiful. Why haven't I ever admitted that I was always in love with her, right from the bloody start?
"What's going on? " She says, looking at me strangely, narrowing her eyes, and tilting her head to one side.
"I think the spike is punched." I tell her solemnly, my jaw slack as I stare at her in utter wonderment. "Louisa…don't be cross…please… but I have to ask you…how much punch have you drunk?"
"Martin, I don't think it's me we should be worried about... besides, I've only had half a glass, the miserly one you poured me when we first arrived."
I nod sagely, as if it were all part of my plan. Unwittingly, I had the gift of foresight, and everything is completely under control. "And how do you feel?"
"Brilliant, actually." She says breathily, flashing a brief, self-conscious smile. "Like a night out has done me a such a lot of good…but, are you alright though? You seem a bit…"
"I know." I interrupt fervently, taking both her hands in mine. "I am a bit…something. I just don't know what that is. It feels like I should be worried…but I'm not even worried that I'm not worried, if you see what I mean. And I should be. You're pregnant, and I should be worried about you and… whatever is in that punch…but…"
"Martin, I'm fine though I am thinking we've both had enough. I'd like to check on James and I think you might need to eat something."
I look down as she squeezes my hands encouragingly. Warm, reassuring, just like her kiss, always just the right amount of pressure. She is silk, velvet, feather-light; immersing me in melting honey, clotted cream. Hot as Hades, tight as a drum, as moist as the morning dew. So much more than I ever dreamed of, undeniably more than I deserve. My god, Louisa, what I need to do, what I need to be just to be worthy of you, it's all suddenly so unambiguous and crystal-clear!
"Whatever you want…" I tell her earnestly, and I mean it, in fact I've never been more sincere in my entire life.