At first, it sounds a bit like a gull; a kittiwake perhaps or something even more unusual. In my mind's eye, I see it as exotic, migratory, and accidentally blown off-course, hovering on the up-draughts, circling the village. Briefly, I even feel sorry for the poor thing, imagining how it must feel, calling out in vain for its absent flock. But the truth is the morning so far has been a confusing blur, and I'm so distracted that I've not got much sympathy. It sounds selfish but I barely have time to make sense of my own problems never mind worry about some daft, bewildered bird. Squeezing my eyes shut, soaking up the heat from the cascade of water, I don't even know where to start on getting my own feelings sorted. There are so many moments to be dissected, too many actions I can't quite interpret, and an array of emotions that I'm a bit too scared to actually name.

Bracing myself, I grope for the thin crisp towel that hangs just out of reach. The air is raw in this bathroom, a shabby, little, fibro afterthought tacked crudely to the side of the house. The condensation streams down the painted walls, pooling on the chipped Lino tiles, and I step gingerly over the edge of the bath, before launching into a mad sort of dance, desperate to dry myself and get dressed and decent, just as quickly as I can. It's as I'm unwinding my hair though, from it's shower bun, that I'm sure I hear the call again. I hold my breath for an instant, concentrating, trying to decide if it might be just an unhappy puppy left at home alone. But, when the howl rings out a third time, even closer and much much louder, I feel a massive stab of apprehension. I open the door just a crack, the icy draught swirling through the steam, listening intently until there is simply no doubt at all; it's certainly no disoriented seagull. Heartrendingly, it's the cry of a child in distress.

You stop thinking then, don't you, and you just act. Staggering as if I were playing a drunken form of hopscotch, I force my feet into my boots, flailing my arms for balance as I run toward the sound of the cry, clutching at the gate as I almost lose my balance at the end of the lane. The shock of the cold, damp air sucked into my lungs makes me wheezy, everything around me is just an indistinct haze. I'm only conscious of sounds really; the heavy slap of my footsteps resounding off the solid stone walls, my breathing loud and raspy, my heartbeat hectic in my ears. But it's human nature, isn't it, a little kid crying triggers something deep within us, something primal and instinctive; as the text books tell us, it's one of the most distressing sounds an adult human can ever hear.

Stumbling into Dolphin Street, I recognise the little boy instantly. He stands alone, his hair a ragged halo of ash blonde curls, the reason for his anguish horribly obvious. As I stoop to pick him up, I get a glimpse of his mum, twenty yards away, prone and gasping on the footpath, her shopping strewn across the cobbles. It's shocking, surreal even, like I'm in the middle of a film, and a scene that just doesn't make any sense. I can't work out what's going on, what could have happened to her, I mean, a typical, tough, Cornish woman, usually so full of beans, not really even that old, just going about her business. For a second, I stare open-mouthed, until her son wailing in my ear startles me out of my stupor. I cradle his head with my hand, and press his damp, tear-stained face into my neck.

"It's okay…Al…it's alright…Mummy will be alright…" I whisper breathlessly, my chest heaving, clutching his trembling little body as tightly as I can, squeezing him each time his tiny frame is wracked by an heart-breaking sob. "Doctor Sim is here to look after her, and all the other people are helping…"

My god, I hope he believes me because, really, I'm as much trying to convince myself as I am him because the little I can see of her actually fills me with a sickening sort of fear. Taking a few deep breaths helps a bit, and I heave him around to my hip, and attempt to walk a few yards back up the hill. Something tells me that I have to distract him, I mean, who knows what effect will it have on him, seeing his mum collapsed like this. But I can't just walk off with him, can I, and even if I do, where would I go? My dad's freezing cottage is no place for a child, and I'm not exactly popular right now with most of the village, which limits my options for refuge rather a lot. The best thing for Al would be the security of his daddy, and I wonder if I should ask the onlookers if anyone has been sent to fetch Bert?

Glancing back over my shoulder, I start to feel a little bit annoyed really. You know, it's a shame a few of those standing around gawking at poor Mary didn't think to pick up her things, never mind take care of her son. Morbid curiosity, that's all that it is. I mean, has anyone tried to do something, anything a bit more constructive than just getting in Doctor Sim's way? Look at Mrs. Poustie, dozens of kids of her own, yet she's not made any effort at all to console a frightened little boy. And Mrs Averill, for God's sake, she should know better, she should definitely know how it feels, her first husband dropping dead in broad daylight, halfway up Roscarrock Hill. So much for being public spirited, the village only seems to come together these days when there's someone to condemn.

Al starts to wriggle, and I swing around, far enough to make sure his back is to the spectacle. I don't really know what else to do. My heart's still thumping, I'm still so very shocked; it's just horrible, knowing that something has happened to someone you know, and that she is lying just yards away on the cold wet cobbles, and you're powerless to do anything to help. And it beggars belief actually, that people are treating it like a sideshow, wandering casually up the lane, gathering around gawping, so much so that I can't really see anything at all. And, with my legs bare, my jacket still on a hook in the kitchen, it feels bloody icy, on my own, stood in the shade. I look around for a patch of sunlight to move to but the sun is simply too low in the sky. Al's weight drags on my neck and with some difficulty, I shift him across to my other hip, his little body rigid and tense as he clings to me like a limpet.

Someone calls up the lane that an ambulance is on its way, and a murmur of approval ripples around the bystanders. Doctor Sim emerges from the cluster of bodies, familiar in his uniform of mismatched tweed, his hair protruding at all angles from beneath his famous, battered Grouse Hat. What isn't familiar though is how much he seems to have aged since the last time I saw him, I mean, he's actually looking really gaunt. But still, as he wipes his hands, there's an air of finality that I need to believe is promising, I suppose so I can finally breathe again. I bite my lip, hoping that it's a good sign, and that Mary is actually going to be okay. I wait for him to reassure us, just like he always has, in that the absent-minded way he jollied us along as kids. There, there, nothing to worry about. Every childhood ailment prevented by halibut oil and vitamin C, every adult cured by a Rennies and a nice hot cup of tea.

But both his vague benevolence and his bedside manner seem to have deserted him and, as the breeze whips my hair around my face, I notice his hands go to his hips, his mouth now a thin, indignant slit. I suppose it is lucky that he is even here at all, recalling that Saturday was his always his golf day; Dad always said his second home was with the Vicar, on the nineteenth tee. Growing up, if anyone in the village needed medical attention after hours, we just expected to go to Wadebridge, that's just how it was, the way it's always been. Is that justification though? Is having to work on his day off an explanation for this sudden and uncharacteristic display of bad temper? I frown, the day just seems to get more unbelievable by the minute. I mean, how can you possibly make sense of it, the local GP pulling faces and gesticulating, like a petulant child?

"Who the bloody hell do you think you are?" He demands indignantly, his burst of bad temper so unexpected that the crowd that surrounds him scuttle away in alarm.

I watch as Mrs Averill mutters something under her breath, grinding her fag end into the cobblestones with the heel of her sturdy boot, her fur-trimmed swing coat flaring out as she swivels. In the crook of my neck, sticky from his tears, Al exhales in a long shuddery gasp; sad and submissive and totally helpless. In the the pale sky, Jackdaws cry and chortle, in the distance waves whipped up by the breeze crash against the seawall, and a few yards away, a familiar voice, imperious and as crisp as cut glass, demands that everyone get out if his way. Resonant with authority, the effect is instantaneous. If Jim Sim's outburst made the crowd take a backward step, this man, assertive and undeniably in charge, has them scattering instantly, scampering off down the adjacent alleys like a colony of frightened rabbits.

But, for me, everything is quite still, crystal clear, and perfectly silent. Our eyes meet, it's barely a glance, but it's still almost a revelation. Martin is not standing in a bakery queue, he's not waiting impatiently on the Plat, clutching my crab sandwich and avoiding eye-contact with any passers-by. He's not reorganising the boot of his car to maximise space for my things, nor glowering at parents buying candy floss for their kids. He is here, on one knee, bent over Mary Large, his beautiful cashmere coat folded and placed under her head, scowling with ferocious concentration, as if her actual life is in his hands. My grip on Al weakens and, gradually, gently, he slips from my arms.

"For god's sake," I hear Martin growl, "Salbutamol's not going to be any use, is it? Give me your bag!"

Without waiting for permission, he reaches over and drags the battered old leather case toward him, rummaging through it, his expression one of absolute distaste. I can't look away as he pulls out a stethoscope, wiping it fastidiously with his handkerchief, before jamming it into his ears. Though she seems oblivious, he explains something to Mary before slipping the diaphragm under her blouse, moving from side to side, and up and down, in a series of precise, careful movements. I reach for Al's hand and steer him back toward me, his cheek now firmly against my hip as I stroke his hair and mutter something I hope is consoling. I know he shouldn't be here, I know he shouldn't see what's going on but I can't leave, I'm totally transfixed.

"Look here!" Dr. Sim barks back, stammering with outrage. "I'm the woman's GP, and I'm telling you she's a chronic asthmatic…"

"Oh really?" Martin replies icily, shaking his head free of the earpieces and fixing poor old Dr. Sim with the stare he reserves for incompetent public servants and anyone who questions his judgment. "Decreased air entry sounds on the left, possible hyper-resonance and subcutaneous emphysema…Did you actually examine the patient or are you intent on a diagnosis regardless of presentation?"

"How dare you! She's clearly in respiratory distress, she has a history of asthma and a reluctance to use her inhaler…"

"And that alone explains the sweating, does it? The obvious cyanosis, the progressive tachycardia?" Martin growls, pressing his fingers against her neck as his frown deepens. "How long until the ambulance gets here?"

Dr. Sim shrugs. "Half an hour, forty minutes…why?"

"Distended carotids indicate reduced venous return." Martin replies coldly. "Has she complained of any discomfort, been to see you about any injuries lately?"

Dr. Sim shakes his head vehemently, but before he has a chance to reply, Mrs. Gleebles starts to shout, safe now behind her garden gate, her voice shrill and bubbling with excitement: "Yes she did! I saw her up the Co-op earlier and she mentioned that she took a tumble down the stairs!"

There's a murmur of agreement and a nodding of heads, and I recall the state of their cottage when I took care of Al on Wednesday evening. It was Real Ale night at the Crab, both Bert and Mary seemed excited to go, and I was just grateful for an excuse to get out Dad's cottage, even if it was just to sit by myself in someone else's. I remember the scene, tools laying around everywhere, discarded timber on the landing, work boots, paint tins, the place had been like a man trap, an accident just waiting to happen. In the half hour or so before I put Al to bed, I had the devil's own job of keeping him out of harm's way. Half Job Harry, Mary had affectionately called her husband as they'd left, slipping her arm through his as they cheerfully made their way down the lane. But if she did fall, it was just an unlucky accident, I'm sure Bert had meant to get it finished, I'm sure the last thing he wanted was for Mary to get hurt. For all his mad schemes and procrastination, he's a man who really does love his wife.

"Martin." I say, walking toward him, clutching Al's hand in mine, turning him sideways so that I obscure his view of his mother. "When I was there earlier in the week, Bert had taken up the stair carpet and was pulling down the bannister…it's about about a six foot drop from the landing, straight down on to flagstones…"

Again, our gazes meet, and I recognise something in his expression, something fleeting, perhaps a slight widening of his eyes, a faint softening of his frown. Before it even registers though, before I have a chance to acknowledge him, his attention returns to Mary, saying something to her, but whether she understands, or even hears him I will never know. The skin around her mouth and nose has taken on a bluish hue and even I can hear her struggle for breath is becoming harder. Without thinking, I pull up the hood of her son's anorak, like blinkers on a racehorse or the cover on a budgie's cage. She looks so vulnerable, her hair stuck to her forehead, her arms lying helpless at her sides. It's almost touching how gentle Martin is with her, that despite his size, he examines her with such care, his hands moving lightly and efficiently across her rib cage.

"I think she's suffered a chest injury, a rib fracture perhaps, which has lead to a tension pneumothorax." He says, without looking up. "In my opinion if we wait for the ambulance, we are putting her at risk of fatal cardiopulmonary collapse…"

My god, his words are like a stinging slap. For the first time, I feel a real panic inside, a fear that everything is not going to be alright, that Mary won't be sitting up in bed this evening with a nice bowl of creamy chicken soup, worse still, that Little Al's life is going to turned upside down in a way that very few people can possibly comprehend. Obviously, I don't understand the words Martin used but hearing him say that there was the risk of something fatal chills me to the absolute bone. I want to call out to him, to beseech him, please, Martin, just do something! This is sensible, kind-hearted Mary Large! Driver of the mobile library, distributor of meals-on-wheels, she's the sort of community-minded woman that this village, never mind her husband and son, just can't afford to lose. Please, Martin, I think to myself, please, do something so this little boy doesn't have to grow up without his mother.

But, while my heart races and Martin's scowl becomes noticeably deeper, he shows no sign of anxiety, no alarm whatsoever, no evidence of any stress at all. He seems just a little thoughtful, as if he's contemplating what tie to wear, what fish to order, or what lane on the motorway he should be in.

Dr. Sim, however, does not display the same degree of calmness; his hand looks really shaky as he runs it up and down his face. "What? A tension pneumothorax? Well, I…I…I've never seen one before…ahh…I'm not sure…I don't know…"

"Martin, what can we do?" I blurt out, impatiently. "To help I mean…if the ambulance is…isn't…you know…if we've got to wait at least half an hour…"

"At this point, the only course of action is to attempt decompression, using a needle thoracocentesis." He replies, matter-of-factly, as he rummages in the doctor's bag. "But, since we can't move her, I'm going to have to do it here."

"Bloody hell." Dr. Sim mutters. "That's a bit of a risk, isn't it? You better be sure…"

Martin shoots him a look of such disdain that I almost laugh out loud. This composure, this confidence, this must be what I've heard snippets of, this must be what it is that sets him apart. Of course, these must be the traits that had all of the NHS trusts competing to secure him, the self possession that had his peers deferring to him, the reasons why I've seen him haughty and aloof, striding the corridors of his familiar hospital setting. I've known him exhausted and frustrated, focused and distracted but I've never actually seen him doing this before, using all the skill he's famous for, attempting to save a person's life. And his voice is so smooth and unhurried as he reels off a list of things he might need, his tone only becoming more savage as he castigates the GP for not carrying lidocaine, a catheter or a small bore needle, in what he refers to as his disgraceful shambles of a doctor's bag. My heart leaps, my stomach is all butterflies, and I feel like I'm seeing him for the very first time.

"I suppose one should be grateful you're familiar enough with betadine to at least have that on hand." Martin adds caustically. "Honestly, it beggars belief…"

I watch as Dr. Sim bristles, opens his mouth to say something, and then thinks better of it. I do feel sorry for him because it can't be easy for an old man, possibly at the end of a long career, to be confronted with someone as brilliant as Martin Ellingham, dressed in a smart suit, and confident enough to perform some sort of life-saving medical procedure, on an unconscious patient in a damp, village lane. Honestly, the poor old bloke's spent most of his life dishing out cough syrup and dealing with nits. This is probably the most challenging thing he's ever faced and he's clearly not up for it, he's clearly not the man for the job. It must be horrible for him, an ageing GP shown up by an gifted young Lion and of course, I'm embarrassed for him. Still, there's no need to hurt his feelings unnecessarily.

"Can I do anything, Martin?" I hear myself cry out. "I mean, I could run to the pharmacy…"

"You heard the doctor, he's asked for some space…" Dr. Sim says loudly, and he's suddenly pompous, holding out an arm as if I'm both helpless and stupid. "Look after little Albert like a good girl, buy him some sweets, take his mind off everything, until his father arrives. Otherwise you'll both just get in our way…"

"Actually, Louisa, is there someone else who can look after the child now?" Martin interrupts briskly, glancing at me. "Because those blankets we folded might actually be useful, and a bucket of hot soapy water too, if you can manage."

I nod at him earnestly, desperate to help, and buoyed by a moment of something that seems mutual, a brief return to that connection that used to exist between us. But, glancing around, I don't have much chance of some assistance with Al, most of the bystanders having retreated and only the most obtuse and thick-skinned now loitering by the walls, and hovering in the doorways. But every day is a teaching day, isn't it, and I feel suddenly energised, like this is what I'm trained to do, so involving him too seems the obvious solution.

"Yep. Of course, and perhaps Al can help me." I say, smiling as my charge gazes up at me silently, his wide set, bright blue eyes so trusting, those long eyelashes, that little turned up nose so endearing. "Your mum says you're super at helping, Al. And I need someone strong to help me carry the blankets…what do you think? Shall we go together? Shall we go and get some things to help the doctor?"

His lip quivers but he gives a tiny, brave nod of his head and my heart just about bursts into pieces. I grimace hopefully back at Martin but, though he's looking directly at me, he appears lost in his own thoughts. I suppose his mind needs to be elsewhere, I can't imagine how it feels to be in his position, knowing you're the only one with the skill to save poor Mary's life. What a responsibility to have on your shoulders, especially when she is so important in bringing up a thoughtful, intelligent little boy, and managing to keep her husband on the straight and narrow; in gainful employment, on the right side of the law, and apart from his extended family, grifters and no-hopers the lot of them. The emotion seems to bubble up so fervently in my chest and I think about saying something but Martin is no longer paying attention. He's already completely focused on his patient, carefully laying out all the things he needs.

We turn and, as I encourage him, Al and I break into a half jog, awkward and out of step, his yellow Mac rubbing and rasping with each bustling step of his little legs. He waits by the door, watchful and silent as I assemble what I was asked for; in the absence of a bucket, I seize upon a saucepan though it seems to take forever to fill. Soap from the bathroom, the blankets from upstairs and, as an afterthought, a pillow; I am laden like a packhorse as we scramble back down the stairs. I hold the hot water out in front of me like I'm in an egg and spoon race, my forearm aching and burning from the weight, but desperate not to spill a drop. I only get as far as the rusty gate when someone stops me, a vaguely familiar farmer's wife, her face is kindly, her voice a slow and gentle, Cornish burr.

"I've just come into town because I've run out of dripping. Fancy that, a farmer's wife and not a spoonful of lard to be found in the house? And they'll be back soon, and expecting a cooked dinner…" She says, beaming at me in such a way that I'm not sure exactly how I should answer.

"Right. Yeah, that would be a bit…difficult…" I reply vaguely, trying to be polite yet impatient that she should get out of my way.

"I was worried." She adds. "I thought: What'll my Jim think of me if he gets home and there's nothing on the table?"

I sigh and flash her a brief grimace.

"Umm…it's Mrs. Selkirk, isn't it?" I ask her, nodding as I attempt to explain. "Look, I'm really sorry but I'm in a bit of a hurry…"

"Yes dear, I know…that's why I popped up. It's Saturday, you see."

"Saturday?"

"That's right. Saturday. Jim's fishing day."

"Sorry?" I ask her, trying not to be rude but conscious that each passing second is rapidly cooling my pot of water, and Martin is no doubt waiting impatiently for it, not thirty yards away.

"Jim. My husband. He and Bert often go fishing on a Saturday…" She says, gazing at me placidly, her eyes as big and brown as one of her husband's jersey cows.

"Oh, I see…."

"So I thought to myself, since I'm here, shall I take the little'un home with me then? Looks like you've got plenty to keep you busy…And he quite likes it on the farm, don't you Albert? There's Queenie's piglets. And Emmerdale on the video machine…you'd like to watch that with me, wouldn't you?"

The poor woman. She probably doesn't get out very often, stuck on the farm, only animals to talk to, and Jim, who I can't imagine is much of a conversationalist. But however sorry I feel for her, however close to Bodmin she might be sailing, Al has willingly taken her hand and he even smiled at her, just now, just a tiny bit. I make a spur of the moment decision, I'm going to let her look after him now, because it's absolutely for the best, I'm sure of it.

"Um, yes…yes please Mrs. Selkirk, if you're sure it's not too much trouble." I tell her breathlessly. "And, please, as soon as you see Bert, let him know what's happened. Tell him it's urgent, that Mary collapsed in the street…"

"Oh yes dear, I'll be sure to mention it." She assures me and I nod at her, somehow not really reassured at all.

I barely give them a second glance as they totter off up the hill together, running the few yards back to where Mary lies, as if it's my life that depends on it. Martin stands up as I approach him, saying nothing as he takes the steaming pot from me and sets it to one side. He has removed his jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves, looking vaguely Edwardian in his braces, his shirt still firmly buttoned, right up to his neck. If he's cold, he doesn't mention it, if he's worried, it doesn't show. I hand him the blankets, one by one, watching as he carefully unfolds them, his scowl intense as he puts them in place. Jim Sim arrives back, silent and now apparently subservient, placing an assortment of mysterious packets on a small sheet of plastic, and clearing his throat as he feels for the pulse in her wrist.

"What's happened to her? I don't understand." I say quietly, watching as Martin begins to open the packages, and draw up a syringe.

"Ahh, well, I suspect a tear in the lung, which is causing a build up of air inside the pleural space. Unfortunately, every breath she takes forces more air into the chest cavity, which compresses the lung, and then forces it to the opposite side of the chest, thereby compressing the functioning lung as well. The trachea is displaced and…umm…even the heart is compressed. Eventually, the pressure in the chest exceeds that of the venous return…at which point the heart stops pumping…"

"Oh my god…"

"Obviously, treating her here is a last resort…diagnosis via a chest x-ray, and the procedure carried out under sterile conditions would be infinitely more preferable but we don't have much time…"

"Martin…." I exclaim softly, catching my breath, trying to compose myself. "My god, so what exactly are you going to do?"

"Firstly, I'll apply the local anaesthetic at the catheter insertion site…" he explains, as he picks up the syringe. "And into the intercostal muscle so it's as painless as possible. We'll give it a moment to take effect and then I'll make a single stab incision to enter the pleural space and place a tube to vent the pressure."

I nod at him and bite my lip, spellbound as I watch him, so deft in his every action, so economical with his movement, so confident, and so precise. Even Dr. Sim watches on with a begrudging sort of admiration, taking on the role of assistant as he takes the empty vial from him, asking politely if he needs help with anything else at all. Without a word, Martin holds out his hand and somehow I know to pass him the soap, and I look on, captivated even by the the act of him plunging his hands into the water. And, god, he takes such care of the preparation, soaping between his fingers, vigorously rubbing them together, under and over, paying particular attention to his nails and up as far as his elbows. For a moment, I'm reminded of how attractive his forearms are, so strong and smooth and sinewy, until the thought makes my face flush with embarrassment and I squeeze my eyes shut and give myself a rather severe telling off.

"Are these the only size you have?" I hear him ask tersely, apparently frustrated as he struggles to force his hands into the surgical gloves.

"I've found that my hands tend to stay the same size from day to day." Dr. Sim replies drily. "So, I'm sorry but yes, they are."

Martin grunts, the old GP's attempt at humour apparently going right over his head as he casts his eye over everything around him.

"Right." He says, to no one in particular and picks up his scalpel, pausing as he holds it above her breast, and an exposed square of orange-stained skin. I shiver then, and there are a millions reasons why. Of course, he notices, glancing up at me, one eyebrow raised.

"If you hear a whoosh…" he says, his tone surprisingly light as he presses the scalpel to her chest. "You'll know we've been successful…."

I smile at him then, in an encouraging way, grateful too that Dr. Sim seems to have pulled himself together and is genuinely trying to help. I suddenly feel quite calm about everything, convinced that Martin is the man to save her and that everything is actually going to be alright. Even so far from home, in this wintery lane, he looks every inch the imperturbable surgeon. His hair, as usual, cut brutally short, his scowl deep, his concentration intense, I realise that, to other people, he must seem more than a bit intimidating, but I know the shy and hesitant Martin that exists alongside this imperious man and seeing him like this, at work, well there's no point denying it; I do find it a bit thrilling, despite the awful circumstances.

I can't take my eyes of him now, his head bowed over her, his profile so distinctive, so familiar, his jaw firm and square. i always loved his strong features, that indomitable brow, the eyes that glint with such fierce intelligence. And I know he has his flaws, I can't forget that his accusations broke my heart, but I still can't help thinking about how it felt to cup his face in my hands, the taste of him, how soft his mouth was as it brushed against mine. Nothing about Mr. Ellingham the vascular specialist prepares you for the lightness of his kiss, the gentleness of his touch and so, not for the first time today, I feel a desperate regret for the love we had and the man I couldn't keep. God, it feels so painful, it stings in a way that's now just about unbearable and it just doesn't seem to make any sense. I mean, how can someone be so commanding and inspiring in one part of their life, and have moments of such tenderness, but then be so difficult and uncommunicative for so much of the rest?

"Bugger!" He growls, and the furious scowl is back.

"What's happened?" I hear myself squawk, as my heart lurches in my chest and bile rises in my throat. Jim Sim clears his throat but he says nothing, and he doesn't move.

"My glove has split." He says, without looking up. "Louisa, can you run to the car? There's a unopened box of surgical gloves in the boot. In a plastic crate, with the first aid kits…bring the whole box…"

I glance down. His finger appears to be in her chest, and there's more blood than I expected. My mouth tastes soapy and I'm almost glad to be sent on an errand. I take a couple of sideways steps and then, thank goodness, my wits return.

"Yup. Car keys?" I ask him and I take a few brisk steps toward his suit jacket where it's hooked over a railing. I know what I'm looking for, I've teased him a few times about how underwhelming the bunch is; no fob, no decoration, just three plain keys on a sturdy, small diameter ring.

"Umm, no…I…ummm….actually, they're still in my trouser pocket." He mutters, and he pushes himself up a little on his haunches. "Right hand side. I can't get...I'm scrubbed…can you just…?"

He leans to one side, turning his shoulders away from me and I stare at him in horror for a moment, feeling the skin on my face turn crimson and start to glow. Of course he won't look at me, and perhaps that's just as well. Mary gives a little gurgling cough and his attention returns instantly to her. There's nothing else for it, is there? Swallowing hard, I crouch down behind him, positioning myself slightly to his right, wiping my hand on my skirt a couple of times, as he raises his elbow and lowers his knee. The scent of his deodorant is so familiar, the broad expanse of shoulders so close to my face as I flatten my hand and slide it tentatively into his pocket. Fingers first and then the ball of my thumb, slipping over the front of his hip, my progress smoothed by the warm, silky lining of his immaculate trousers. It's another revelation, men's pockets are copious and that this one in particular seems to go on forever. I follow the curve of his hip, my fingertips hesitating on something I can't quite identify, until I realise it's only the seam of his boxers. Mortified in case I have lingered too long, I force my hand sideways to the outside of his leg.

And all the time I'm conscious of the heat he emanates, the fabric of his shirt so soft and silky as I inadvertently brush it with my cheek. It's impossible not to fumble, searching blindly, feeling so horribly self-conscious, digging my teeth into my lip at how embarrassing this all is. Oh god, his thigh feels as hard as rock as I grope my way across it. How can this not be excrutiating for both of us, how can it not be as awkward as hell? Even when we were lovers, this would have felt like I was encroaching on something Martin would rather keep private, so it feels so terrifyingly intimate to touch him like this, there, again. But he, of course, is like a statue, so composed that he does not move a muscle, so focused that he does not make a sound. And it's only when I hook my little finger through the keyring, and hastily withdraw my hand, I think perhaps I hear him emoting something, attempting to smother a tiny gasp. But it's as I run as fast as I can toward Squeezebelly Lane that I really start to wonder, perhaps I wasn't the only one feeling something, I wasn't the only one incapable of taking a breath.

Then, after he puts the fresh gloves on, it's a bit like a miracle, really, how fast Mary actually rebounds. But if the air escaping her chest does make a noise, I don't hear it, because I'm a bit out of breath myself, standing a few feet away, flexing my bruised knee, inhaling deeply and just watching on as I'm flooded with such enormous relief. Even Martin seems almost relaxed as he fiddles with the tubes before he and Dr. Sim reposition poor Mary so she's sitting more comfortably, her colour noticeably improving. He washes his hands again, drying them carefully on the towel before unrolling his shirtsleeves, and reattaching his cufflinks. His overcoat is retrieved from the ground and he examines it briefly, scowling again as he attempts to shake the creases out. It's only when he glances around for his suit coat that he appears to notice me, throwing his shoulders back immediately and confidently raising his chin.

"Will she be alright?" I ask him, cautious because there's discomfort between us again, sad because our brief camaraderie has evaporated, and acutely conscious that he views me now like some liberty-taking oddball, one who purposely fondled his crutch.

"Umm…yes. She'll have to go to hospital obviously but she should make a full recovery…"

"That's totally brilliant, Martin." I reply, and I realise I sound like an inarticulate teenager. "That's…that's…really good…"

"Mmm." he says, glancing at me sideways as he reaches for his jacket.

"I'm sorry about before…I didn't mean…I wasn't trying to…"

"No," he replies hastily, conclusively, his expression showing clearly that he'd rather be anywhere else than here. "It's fine…I mean, I know…it was…wasn't…Mm."

"What happens now?" I ask him, desperate to change the subject, trying to get us back somehow to where we were, friends at least.

But it has the opposite effect. He looks at me then, almost as if he is horrified. "What?"

"I mean, do you have to go with her in the ambulance? To Truro?"

"Oh, I see…umm. No. There's no need." He replies, pulling his tie from his suit coat pocket, and casually popping his collar. "I'll brief them and then it's up to her GP. Such as he is."

He falls into the rhythm then, hand over hand, twisting the length of silky fabric into an immaculate Windsor knot. Collar down, jacket on, two buttons attached; the lower one always left open, never done up. This imposing, strange, enigmatic human; a beautiful boy, an imperious surgeon. Brilliant might be a word hijacked by teenage girls but it's the only word to use for him, calmly saving a child's mother in the street, yet as diffident as if it really doesn't matter.

You really are an extraordinary man, Martin Ellingham, and for that alone I know I will love you forever, I think to myself, the realisation wrapping my flesh in goosebumps and making me visibly shiver.

"You're cold." He remarks mildly. "The ambulance can't be far away now. Go and wait in the cottage, out of the wind. I'll be along as soon as I can to collect the rest of the boxes…"

I pick up the saucepan, and it feels like the final conclusion as I drag myself toward my father's horrible cottage. The wind chimes outside Mrs. Moysey's house strike metallic musical notes that are carried on the breeze, uplifting in a way I no longer feel. I don't understand so many things that have happened in my life, and Lord knows, I try always to rise above them. But this pain in my heart, it just gets worse. It's like a stone in my shoe, a thorn in my bra, a speck of something stinging in my eye. The slope up to the house feels ridiculously steep, and every breath is like I'm choking, forced to inhale the smoke of burning rubber. The truth is so obvious but it's just that I can't face it. I don't know if I can bear to understand why those I love never see me worthy of reciprocating. The door is open, the room is cold, I sit down on the wobbly chair and slump across the table.

I'm not sure how long I lie there for. Hopelessness and defeat seem to skew all my sense of time and, right now, no amount of rationalisation seems to help me. Oh well, never, mind, at least Mary is alright just doesn't make a difference, and look how lucky I am, barely keeps the misery at bay. I've always thought that people admire you when you're plucky, don't they, they love to see you wearing a brave face. Just getting on with things despite how dire your circumstances meets with universal social approval, whereas feeling sorry for yourself is most definitely frowned upon. But just for a moment, here and alone, I'm tired of affirmations and always looking for a positive spin. I'm sadder than I've ever felt and I don't care now who knows it.

At that point, I remember distinctly knowing that the tears were welling, and that I wouldn't stop them, I mean what's the point in hiding everything when there's no one here to see me cry? But the thought disappears, and my head flies up, as I'm startled by a alarming thumping on the front porch. I stand up, the door is flung open and, like a detective on the telly, an ashen-faced Martin comes hurtling through it, so physical and so consequential that he completely fills the room. And I don't even have time to imagine the worst, I can't think what it all means I'm so absolutely stunned by his demeanour as he stands in front of me, his expression pained, his eyes so wide and imploring that I'm frozen to the spot. And then his voice, so rich and velvety.

"Louisa, please, listen to me. I'm sorry. I know I've been the most enormous arse…"