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Chapter 9

Martin

I apologize for the long gap between chapters, and thank you kind readers for your patience. It's been difficult to find the time and energy to write, but I hope everything will be back on track in short order.

And so we left Martin waiting to meet Chris Parsons at a hotel in Truro. He hopes his old med school mate will help him secure a surgical position, as he's keen to leave Portwenn after his failed relationship with Louisa. Meanwhile Edith Montgomery makes a surprise appearance, leaving Martin in a fluster.

This story takes place after the failed wedding in Series 3 and before Louisa returns to Portwenn, pregnant with Martin's child.

My gaze was fixed on the now empty lobby, my mind struggling to make sense of what had just transpired before my eyes. Edith Montgomery, or someone who bore an uncanny resemblance to her, had swept into Sedgwick's Hotel accompanied by a mound of luggage the size of a small country. Even though it had been more than twenty years since I had last seen her, there was no mistaking the flaming ginger hair and the rudeness with which she had treated the porter. The poor sod hadn't stood a chance and I knew too well how he felt, having once been at the receiving end of her sharp wit and ire. But that hadn't come until later, when she'd marked me as her own halfway through our first year at medical school. Don't assume I hadn't been a willing participant, taken by her brilliant intellect and dazzled by the wide array of skills she demonstrated in the bedroom.

But it wasn't meant to be. In the last week of our senior year she announced having accepted an obstetric fellowship in Toronto. There had been no talk of me going with her, and not that I could have; I was to start my own training in vascular later that month. In retrospect there had been a shrewdish forethought in the way she had delivered the news, the timing meant to avoid drawn out scenes and prevent me from following her across the pond. But she hadn't counted on me determination to salvage what was left of our relationship, and had gone so far as to ask her to marry me. She had turned me down with a laugh, and I still cringe at the scene in the Air Canada departure lounge – me professing my undying love while she glanced at the diamond watch wrapped around a slim wrist, one I had gifted her on her last birthday. I'll always remember how she looked, beautiful in a cold way, her lips curved in a satisfied smile. And then it had dawned on me Edith had no feelings other than those that served her ambitions. It had been a bit of a shock, realising the woman you love didn't care for anything or anyone but herself. In the end this had helped me move on, but it had taken time for the pain and anger to finally burn down to a distant and dull ache. Years later I'd look back and thank goodness I'd not married the woman, shuddering at the kind of life I would have had with Edith as my wife.

But I hadn't known any better on that September morning, and had begged her to stay. "We've been through this, Ellingham," she said as we both stood at the boarding gate. "Before I know it you'll have me trussed up in an apron with a gaggle of snotty kids in tow. Thanks but no thanks." She had softly kissed my cheek and disappeared out of my life.

This reminded me of another leaving taking, Louisa walking down Roscarrock Hill, the skirt of her wedding dress swaying gently with every step. I had made no attempt to stop her, and if her last letter was anything to go by, she was now living happily in London. It had been a short missive, full of chatty news about her new job and flat while I was stuck in Portwenn, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

My mouth had gone dry and I took a sip of mineral water, my near contentment of a few minutes ago replaced with a low grade agitation that had me sitting on the edge of my seat. I kept glancing at the lifts, worried Edith would make another appearance; there would be questions and I wasn't keen on telling her what I was doing in Cornwall. She of all people would be the least understanding at what had brought me here, and I imagine she'd deride me royally for frightening at the sight of blood. But then again she may already know all the sordid details, the news of my fall from grace having been lunch fodder at every hospital cafeteria in London and possibly the Commonwealth.

And so I waited for Chris, the newspaper and cheese plate lying forgotten on the table in front of me. A crescent moon hung above the slumbering garden outside the lounge window and I glanced at my watch – a few minutes after six. Chris was late, and this only fueled my already restlessness state. I was about to signal the waiter to bring me the check – maybe I'd go and wait outside – when my old med school mate came hurrying across the empty lobby, a grin on his face, tie askew and hands shoved deep into his wrinkled overcoat pockets.

"Sorry I'm late. The retirement thing for Alex Dunn went on forever. Dull as dishwater as a whole, but couldn't be helped. Pathologist aren't exactly the life of the party." He paused, and when I didn't respond exclaimed, "Come on Mart! Even you should get that. Pathologist? Life of the party?"

"Sure," I answered, ignoring what I assumed was his attempt at a joke. I was still grappling with the unexpected Edith sighting, and was trying to get my thoughts in order.

"You all right mate? Looks as if you've seen a ghost." Chris was peering at me with a mix of curiosity and concern, and for a brief moment I thought it a good idea to of tell him about Edith, but as quickly changed my mind. Chris loved a good gossip, and to his annoyance I often compare him to the maundering village fishwives, gathering snippets of useless information like crows collected shinny things for their nests. He says this was helpful in his job as head of the PCT, and it might be true, but it certainly wasn't something I wanted to encourage. Anyhow, I didn't want to waste the next hour speculating on what Edith Montgomery was doing in Cornwall and I imagined he'd want to hear every detail - we'd all been in same year at Imperial, and there was no love lost between Chris and my former girlfriend.

They were poles apart – he the scholarship student from the Midlands and she the youngest daughter of an impoverished earl who had made good by breeding horse for the royal family. The disparity between their upbringings had been a point of pride and friction, so much so that it was impossible for them to be in the same room without bickering like two overgrown children. It had been tedious and my patience (not one of my best attributes) had been strained beyond endurance. Chris hadn't been impressed when he learned I had taken up with Edith - "That'll come to no go end, mark my words Mart" – and he had been right. I just wasn't ready to revisit the whole debacle years after the fact.

Chris was still standing and I gestured to the seat across from me. "Have a seat. No better yet, let's move to the dining room." I was halfway across the lobby when Chris caught up to me, and we were seated in a secluded alcove by the stone hearth, a fire burning brightly in the grate. Two menus were placed in front of us by a pretty young woman that reminded me of my first receptionist, Elaine. Only this person was pleasant, not snarky and moody and asked cheerfully if she could start us off with drinks. I ordered my usual mineral water and Chris a glass of claret.

"I see your still off the strong stuff," he said, perusing the menu. He seemed to have forgotten the "seeing a ghost" business, and for this I gave a silent sigh of relief, grateful to have dodged what would have been an unpleasant rehash of Edith and our med school years. Anyhow, there was a more pressing issue at hand, namely my return to surgical practice. I was eager to find out if Chris had been successful in his inquires, and after deciding on the baked haddock with steamed greens I asked, "Did you have anything for me?" He looked up, his spectacles sliding down his nose. "Cutting to the chase? But then I wouldn't expect anything less." He took a generous sip from the glass of wine that had just been placed in front of him. "Right then. I've got from a reliable source St. Mary's will soon be looking for a new chief of vascular. Let's just say there are some irregularities with the departmental funds." I nodded, having got wind a former pupil of mine had cooked the ledgers to pay for a luxurious holiday on the Amalfi coast. With his mistress, no less. "Anyhow, that's where all the high risk invasive procedures are done. But you already know that, of course." He took another sip of wine and sighed. "I really needed this."

I was about to comment on the ill effects alcohol has on the liver and brain, but thought better of it. Not a good idea to bite the hand that was feeding you, so to speak, only I'd watched my father drink to take the edge off life's many disappointments and hide his shortcomings. Only once had I followed his example, when the chief of surgery had placed me on leave from hospital after my first series of panic attacks. I remember his words to this day – "You're a danger to the staff and patients. I'm ordering you to take time away – get some rest, go on holiday if you must, but don't come back until this mess is straightened out."

His words had rung like a death knell, and I had gone back to my flat, alone and filled with a panic of another sort; what if I was never to operate again? I'd spent the next twenty four hours depleting my stores of whiskey, ignoring the outside world, including the incessantly ringing of my mobile. I'd been avoiding calls from the psychiatrist launched on me by the department, an owl eyed twit charged with sussing out what was ailing their star surgeon. But unbeknownst to me Chris had also been frantically calling, and when there had been no answer he'd hoof it over to my flat, demanding the key from the concierge. He'd let himself in to find me sprawled on the sofa, disheveled and with a headache the size of China. He had sent me to the shower, forced coffee and toast into me before spending a good part of the eveining knocking some sense into my addled brain.

When it became clear the panic attacks were here to stay and surgery was no longer an option, Chris had been the one to help me figure out what to do next. And now I trusted him to help me once again, this time to find a way back to a life I'd only dreamed of… until now.

I dragged my attention back to Chris who was now enumerating the outgoing chief's indiscretions. "… and I'm told a nurse found him having it off with one of the theater techs. On the operating table. Can you believe it? Some people have no sense…"

"The man's an ass," I said, breaking into his narrative mid-stride. "Can you arrange a meeting with the chair?"

Chris gave me a thoughtful look over the rim of his glass, now half empty. "I might be able to. But there's one thing we have to discuss first." I knew what was coming and hoped I hid my uneasiness as he continued. "If I'm going to bat for you, I need to know you're blood thing is under control." He leaned forward just enough to make his point. "So, is it?"

Obviously this was a legitimate concern on his part, especially considering the "blood thing" as he called it, was still a problem. But he didn't need to know that, and I believed (foolishly in turns out) I could overcome my haemophobia with determination and hard work. Just yesterday I had bought another cow's liver from that troublesome village butcher (non-compliant hypertensive with erectile dysfunction) who asked with a snigger if I'd developed a taste for foie gras or had adopted a dog. I'd told him to mind his business and had taken the bag, dripping (I think he'd punched holes in it on purpose) back to the surgery, followed by an assortment of stray cats and mongrels. This had garnered many amused looks from the villagers, and I had ducked into surgery, slamming the door behind me. I'd laid the wet and shimmering organ on the examination coach, pulling a rubbish bin to my side, in case things didn't go as planned. My last attempt hadn't gone so well, after I'd lost my focus and lunch (in that order) when Aunt Joan had unexpectedly shown up with her blasted dog. The scruffy rodent had taken off with the liver and Joan had settled in for a visit, putting an end to my little experiment. But the second time had been different – I'd watched the blood well up on the first pass of the scalpel without experiencing a twinge of nausea. This had filled with a sense of accomplishment like none I'd felt since my days in the theater.

I met Chris's gaze and answered, "I'm working on it." This was the truth, but I could tell he wasn't convinced. "Look Mart, it's my credibility on the line here. Why don't we give it a couple of weeks and see how you do with sorting out your…problem." He was quiet for a moment before adding, "What about consulting a psychiatrist? I know you it's not your thing…"

"No. I'll be fine." This came out more forcefully then I had intended, and Chris sighed in resignation. "Right. Maybe you can do it on your own, Mart, but it would be a sight easier with some help."

I didn't have much use for psychiatrists, and the twit with owl eyes foisted on me in London had only served to confirm therapy was a waste of time. No, I would do this on my own, or not at all.