Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.
Chapter 3
Martin
It was morning, or what passed for morning on an early winter's day in Cornwall. Dawn had yet to crawl through the thick cloud cover pelting cold, hard rain against my bedroom window. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and groaned when it read only half past five. Still too early to get up, but from past experience I knew sleep would be a hard time coming. This had been the pattern of late; wake at first light and stare at the ceiling, my eye trailing the familiar web of fine lines caused by the old cottage settling on its foundation. I wondered if a builder should take a look at the cracked plaster, but I quickly shrugged off the idea. It was a sturdy little cottage, having withstood over a century of storms, two wars and alterations from previous owners who should have known better. Even though I suffered leaky windows, dodgy electrical and plumbing, I didn't care to have workmen tramp about my house. I was reclusive by nature, but of late I'd kept to myself more than usual.
My failure to marry Louisa had sent the village gossip mill into a tail spin of which it had yet to recover. There was no end to the pleasure these imbeciles derived from gabbing about my private affairs, I had taken to silencing anyone who dared bring up the subject with a stern look and a curt reminder it wasn't any of their business. This approach had worked just fine in the operating theater, and the registrar and nurses had known not to push their luck by asking after my weekend or plans for the evening. But the denizens of Portwenn were impervious to my hard looks and sharp tongue, and I hadn't been able to stop them from dawdling in my consulting room, hoping for a crumb or two of information that was then scurried to the hungry hordes like some kind of trophy.
After a while I decided to get up, realising there was no point in lying in bed ruminating about the inadequacies that made up the sum total of my life. I reached for the terry robe lying on the duvet and shoved my feet into the lambs' wool slippers next to the bed. The last had been a gift from Louisa a few weeks after our engagement, and I had been touched by her thoughtful generosity. I knew her teacher's salary was modest, and such a gift must have cost more than she could afford. But she had seen them in
Truro while shopping for whatever it was women shop for when they were to be married, and had bought them, insisting they would keep me warm on those cold winter mornings. They were nice and thick, made from the best shearling, and I padded across the room to pull aside the curtain covering the window. From this vantage point I could see the roof tops of the cottages below soaked to a dark grey in the unrelenting rain. Further afield was the sea, waves pounding against the cliff wall, the spray startling a flock of seagulls into flight; they soared over the village, their screams piercing the air like a shot, before settling back on the cliff's edge to be frightened once again into flight by the next wave. Wasn't this a definition for insanity – making the same mistakes over and over again all the while hoping for a different outcome?
I shivered inside my robe and slippers, the room colder than an ice box, the air rigid with frost. It had been a mistake coming to Cornwall after the onset of the panic attacks that had brought my surgical career to a grinding halt. Nothing good had come of it, other than providing me with a tedious and unrewarding living. And yet I stayed, even though there was nothing for me here, especially now that Louisa had gone.
Taking leave of this god forsaken place had crossed my mind many times over the past month, but I didn't know where I would go. London was out of the question – I couldn't practice as a lowly GP in a place where I had reigned as the city's best vascular specialist. The thought of starting over in a village such as this one was beyond depressing. I dallied with the idea of moving to Canada or even Australia, but I didn't like the cold and cared even less for venomous reptiles and insects. Anyhow I was an Englishman through and through, and couldn't possibly conceive living anywhere other than in Britain.
With a sigh I dropped the curtain and turned from the window, making my way to the lavatory before heading downstairs to make breakfast. I stopped to collect the paper from the front stoop, but as usual, it wasn't there. I shut the door, thinking it might be time to sign up for an electronic subscription when I noticed the message light blinking on the receptionist's answer phone. I hadn't recalled hearing the phone ring last night, but then again, I rarely paid attention to the surgery phone after hours - the answering service knew to reach me on my mobile if there was an emergency.
My hand hovered over the on switch, and for a brief moment, I hoped it might be a message from Louisa. But why would she contact me when I had not made any attempts of my own, other than the stilted email I had written and binned the night before?
I was being stupid, behaving like a lovelorn teenager, and I found myself hitting play with more force than was strictly necessary. The answerphone skidded across the desk, and I grabbed after it as Chris Parson's voice filled the empty reception. "Hey Mart, I know it's late but didn't have a chance to call you before, with getting the kids to bed and finishing up the agenda for the next PCT meeting. That's why I'm calling, to see if you plan on going. You know the meeting is in Truro this time around, and maybe we could go out for dinner afterwards. It'd be a good idea to catch up, and all that. Anyhow, let me know."
The call ended, and I stared at the phone, puzzled. Even though he was my oldest and arguably, only friend, we seldom saw each other except on official trust business. Most of our dealings were done by phone or email, usually when an irate patient complained about my lack of bedside manner. As head of the PCT, it was Chris' job to deal with such things, and I would receive a summary warning before ringing off with a reminder to submit the surgery's budget or patient census report. And so the invitation to dinner had come as a surprise, and I imagined his wife, a well-meaning but at times meddlesome sort of person, had put him up to it. "Do something about poor Martin," I imagined her saying while Chris acquiesced in the name of domestic harmony. I would decline of course, having no intention of sitting through a meal where we both skirted the mess that was my personal life while I silently listened to Chris natter on about his kids and the new round of NHS budget cuts.
I walk towards the kitchen, switching on lights as I went. It was still dark outside, and I doubted it would get much lighter, not with the fog and rain covering the village like a wet blanket. I went about making breakfast, pulling out the eggs and milk Joan had dropped off yesterday. Surgery had been in full swing then, and I had been grateful to have an excuse to avoid my aunt. Since the disastrous wedding day, she had taken to hovering about like a brooding hen, leaving casseroles in the fridge and asking how I was with uncharacteristic solicitousness. This was starting to drive me mad, and although I knew she was trying to be helpful, all I wanted was to be left alone.
But a village GP was rarely left alone, and as the eggs went on the boil and the espresso machine gurgled happily, there came a sharp rap on the surgery's front door.
"What on earth…" I muttered, turning off the flame from under eggs, wondering what on I'd find on my stoop at this early hour. I dried my hands with a tea towel while walking down the hallway and through the reception. There came another sharp rap along with, "Doc! Are you there Doc? My mate here is in a bad way!"
At my doorstep was the fisherman with the asthma – the one who never took his inhalers correctly- with another fisherman I'd seen around the village but who had never come to the surgery for care. His right hand was wrapped in a grimy oilskin, blood pooling down his arm and dripping on the flagstones. I quickly averted my gaze but open the door wider and motioned for them to come in, all the while taking slow, deliberate breaths through my mouth. The stench of blood and mangled flesh mixed with diesel and day old fish was overpowering, and I tried not to gag as I directed them to my consulting room.
"Watch the rug," I managed to say between clenched teeth. But it was too late; the wound was oozing at a steady clip and the fisherman left a trail of dark stains in his wake.
"Can't help it, Doc," grimaced the injured man as he climb on the examination couch. His mate took a seat, his grimy mac leaving a film of muck on the leather backed chair reserved for visitors. Both looked at me expectantly, and I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation - here I was, in my dressing gown and slippers, holding a tea towel in one hand, expected to clean up this mess before I'd even had breakfast.
I glared at the patient, "You stay still and keep your hand elevated. And you," I said, pointing to the grimy fishermen mucking up my chair, "keep an eye on him. I'll be back."
Turning, I headed out of the room and up the stairs to get dressed. It was the start of just another day in bloody Portwenn.