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 7
Martin
I have never cared for Truro. The largest city in Cornwall, it had aspirations to greatness but fell short on every count, possibly with the exception of the gothic revival cathedral, a testament to the Victorian's love of the ornate and ostentatious. I was driving by it when a group of women started across the street causing me to slam on the brakes. They doddered pass my car, tourist guides in hand, and I edged forward impatiently, scanning the street ahead for parking. It was always tourist season in Truro, another reason to dislike the place. But tourist or no tourists it was busier than usual with cars darting in and out of narrow streets and pedestrians, bundled up against the damp chill, hurrying along the wet pavement. Fairy lights sparkled in the gathering dusk on the bare tree branches arched over the road, and I suddenly remembered Christmas was just two weeks away. This would explain the crowds, and I grumbled under my breath at the inconvenience. I had never understood the last minute holiday crush; surly crowds in overheated shops waiting in queue to purchase gifts that would end up gathering dust high on wardrobe and cupboard shelves. That's where most of my childhood holiday presents had ended up – jumpers three sizes too big or Argyll socks in a nauseating shade of green. I had made sure to stash these in the far recesses of my dresser for fear the maid would pack them into my trunk; my situation at school was precarious enough without giving the herd of bullies that roamed the corridors another reason to make my life a living hell.
A delivery van pulled out ahead and I slipped the car into the empty spot. I had plenty of time before meeting Chris Parsons for dinner at Sedgwick's, one of the few restaurants in Truro that hadn't been cited for food hygiene violations. Chris mockingly accused me of studying the Food Standards Agency's reports as closely as a bookie did the tip sheets, but in this back water it paid to know who kept a clean kitchen. Poor hygiene practices were the cause of more patient visits then I cared to count and their symptoms were easily traced to kitchens with stopped drains and floors sticky with mice droppings. Threatening to call the health department had never done any good, and so I had just put up until the day I was served a salad garnished with a splash of blood while dining in Portwenn. I had kicked up a fuss, and from then on Louisa and I had taken to eating dinner in, either at her cottage or mine.
Louisa. No matter how hard I tried my thoughts always circle back to what I most wanted to forget. The memories snuck up on me like fog on a sunny day, leaving me feeling hollow and despondent. It had all been made worse when she left for London, as gone was the possibility of chance meetings in the village's shops and narrow cobbled street. Even thought we were no longer together I had found solace in the knowledge she was close by, either at the school or puttering around her cottage. I would imagine her dressed in a cardigan and knee length skirts patterned in colorful prints (the last I found endearing but of course never said) as she stood in front of the classroom scribbling equations on the blackboard. At night she would come to me in my dreams, smiling coly before disappearing into the breach that lied between sleep and wakefulness. But I'd had very little sleep since the arrival of her letter, upbeat and cheerful, a stark contrast to the joyless slog that was my life, made worse by her absence.
Something had to change. I felt untethered and adrift, an awful feeling for someone who sought comfort in the predicable order of things. Long established routines no longer served as a balm for my restlessness, and I found myself fluttering from one thing to the next like a hapless leaf in the wind. My latest project, a rare 18th century bracket clock, lay untouched on my work bench. General practice, dull on most days, was made worse by patients seeking medical advice for ailments best cured with common sense. My intolerance for the inane had reached new heights, and it had been with a sense of dread I had set out on yet another house call, this time to the old miner and his barmy, cat obsessed, wife. They were no different than the average villager – ignorant and annoying - and I'd tuned out the wife's nattering to better focus on the man's surgical incision. It had been misshapen and puckered under my probing hand, and there was no question I could have done better, much better. A plan had taken root in my mind and grew after I had read Louisa's letter. She obviously wasn't coming back, and I hated living here without her. I found general practice unrewarding and tedious, and the patients were driving me mad. It was like living in a fish bowl, and there just wasn't enough room for both me and the village idiots. It's then that I had returned Chris's call and taken him up on his offer for dinner. Maybe he could send out feelers, find out if there was a job opening for a skilled vascular surgeon, preferably in London. I'd had enough of the country life and London was a big place; it was safe to say there was little chance I'd run into Louisa there.
Damp cold was seeping through the fine wool of my coat, and I got out of the car, buttoning up as I hurried along the crowded pavement. Christmas music was piping through loudspeakers mounted on corner of buildings, and I turned down a side street to get away from the noise. My watch showed there was still an hour before I was to meet Chris at the restaurant; he had been obligated, as chair of the primary care trust, to attend the retirement party of the hospital's chief of pathology. I had made my excuses as parties weren't my kind of thing, and anyhow I barely knew the man - our paths had only crossed once a month at grand rounds where he'd taken a seat well away from everyone. My understanding is that he was a recluse, and preferred to stare down the barrel of a microscope to interacting with his colleagues. I couldn't imagine he cared for parties either, but Chris said forty-five years of service deserved a celebration. It was difficult to argue with that, but I shuddered at the thought of being holed up in Cornwall for what amounted to a prison sentence without parole.
I wasn't paying particular attention to where I was going and found myself in front of a barbershop, the telltale pole spinning lazily next outside the door. For years they had had been the surgeons, lancing boils and pulling teeth, hence the trademark colors – white bandage on red blood. I ran a hand over the back of my neck and felt the beginnings of a few bristles under my fingertips. There was time for a haircut, and I pushed open the door where I was met by a rush of warm air and the sharp smell of pomade and aftershave. A man was sitting in one of the leather swivel chairs reading a newspaper, and the radio was switched on to a sports talk show. The ruckus was just as bad as the tinny Christmas music out on the streets, and I was about to turn around and leave when the man looked up.
"Nasty day out there. Here for a cut?" He rustled the paper close and stood stiffly, one hand rubbing the small of his back. Waving to the just vacated seat he said, "Here you go, won't take a minute."
"Right," I answered, slipping off my overcoat and hanging it next to the door. Before sitting down I pointed to the radio. "Can you switch that off?"
"Sports not your thing? Nothing good on anyway. It's the same old muck, lots of sore losers…" He stopped and peered at me. "Wait, I know you. Aren't you Joan Norton's nephew? From Portwenn?" I never forget a face." He picked up a pocket size remote and pointed it across the room. The radio went blissfully silent.
"Yes, I'm Joan Norton's nephew," I answered cautiously. Most people didn't have anything nice to say about me, and I waited for what usually came next – a running commentary on my lack of bedside manner followed by a heart-felt "tosser". But to my surprise he chuckled and said, "She used to bring you in for a cut when you were still in britches, your aunt did. Nice lady, but you never had much to say for yourself. Just a quiet thank you when I gave you a boiled sweet. Can't have those anymore. Parents make a fuss about sugar rotting the kiddie's teeth."
I took another look around, and suddenly remembered having been brought here on my visits to Joan and Phil when I was a child. Somehow the shop had appeared bigger then, and I glanced around, remembering where the jar of sweets had sat by the till. I had eyed the colorful treats while the barber snipped away, hoping for raspberry or caramel, my favorites. Only later did I realise these trips to the barber had marked the end of my holiday at the farm; my hair, unruly and made golden by hours in the sun, had to be shorn into submission before I was sent back to London. Father insisted on a military cut for his son, and Joan, unwilling to raise his ire for fear he would not send me back the following summer, had dutifully taken me into town for a trim.
"I see you remember! How is your Aunt Joan? Haven't seen her in a donkey's year…" The man chattered on as he picked up scissor and comb. I wanted to tell him to stop talking, but people like him never did. Instead my thoughts traveled back to those long ago summers at the farm, a happy and carefree time. I'd spent my days either tagging along as Uncle Phil made his rounds, feeding the animals and mending fences, or reading adventure books in my favorite spot overlooking the sea. Returning to London had never been easy – there my life was regimented from morning to night by nannies and later tutors at boarding school. But I was no longer a child ferried about on the whims of uncaring adults; my life was my own, and it was high time I took charge of what was to come next.
I left the barber shop if not happy, then at least more or less content. The man had done a good job cutting my hair, and the prospect of having dinner with Chris to discuss my return to surgery had lifted my spirits. There was still the niggling problem of the blood phobia, but I was confident it could be overcome with diligence and hard work. I was being naïve of course – only later did I realise the haemophobia was a symptom to the deep rooted traumas of my childhood. It would take years of therapy to untangle that mess, but I was blissfully unaware of this at the time.
The restaurant was a few minutes' walk from the barber, and I turned down the city's main thoroughfare, thinking I'd look for a Christmas gift for Joan. A display of lined wool gloves caught my eye, and I quickly selected a pair in indigo blue. The shop girl wrapped my purchased and I handed over my credit card while she carried on about the wool being sourced from local sheep. I just nodded, not caring if the wool came from Cornwall or Mongolia, and wondered for the millionth time why people felt the need to talk endlessly about absolutely nothing.
I left while she was in mid-sentence, and continued on, noting the moon was casting a faint glow over the river that flowed through the city. I slowed down long enough to enjoy the view, happy to be away from Portwenn for a few hours. It was a nice change to take a walk without being accosted by middling villagers. Even the sappy Christmas music blaring from every corner had lost its grating edge, and I was in a fairly good mood as I make my way into the lobby of Sedgwick's. It was a hotel as well as a restaurant, the only four star establishment in Truro. The décor was understated and elegant, in muted shades of blue and taupe. Ahead was the restaurant, and to the side was a lounge with deep upholstered chairs overlooking the garden. I made for the lounge and took a seat well away from two woman having tea by the window. Almost immediately a waiter was at my side, and placed a platter of cheese and crackers on the low table in front me.
"Can we bring you anything to drink, sir?" he asked.
I was feeling rather expansive and requested a bottle of French mineral water, no ice. "And I'm waiting for someone, a Dr. Parsons," I added, reaching for my mobile. No message from Chris. Hopefully this meant he'd be on time.
"Very well, sir. I'll let him know where to find you," said the man who then moved on to the ladies by the window. I helped myself to a sliver of cheese – too much saturated fat is dangerous to one's health – and opened one of the papers fanned out on the table. The Guardian was running an interesting series on the economic impact of the EU's trade with China, and I was halfway through the article when a flurry of activity caught my eye. I had sat with my back to the garden window as to spot Chris when he arrived, and in my line of vision was a tall woman with flaming ginger hair directing a rather flustered bell hop. He was trying to push a trolley laden with case into the lift, but wasn't making a very good job of it. She said something before giving a wave of irritation, and stepped into a waiting carriage seconds before the doors slid shut. He shrugged and pressed the call switch as I stared at where the woman had stood; my mind was either playing tricks or Edith Montgomery had just materialized out of nowhere.
Author's Note
Online research shows there are many barbershops in Truro, but two notables are Fatboy Trims and Jabba the Cutt. Both appear to be fine barbering establishments, but I can't imagine dear Martin would have stopped at either of these places on a whim.