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 11

Martin

I grew up in a house where appearances mattered. This was never said in so many words, my parents not being the kind to talk about such things, but the importance of making a good impression was made clear to me from an early age. I have a clear recollection of my childhood home, an elegant four storied terraced house in Kensington. The reception rooms were appointed with the most tasteful and expensive of furnishings, draperies and wall coverings, all chosen with the help of a celebrity designer. My mother insisted on only the having the best of everything, and only later did I come to realize the house (inherited from my father's wealthy and socially affluent parents) was a stage set for her social aspirations. The daughter of a small time industrialist, she was determined to break into the closely guarded circle of London's upper class.

Lavish soirees and dinners were frequent, and these consumed my mother's attention for days on end. From my bedroom I'd watch the lorries lumber to a stop on the street below, burly men carrying cases of imported cheese and wine to the service entrance reached by a narrow set of stairs tucked under the front portico. Flowers would arrive in long boxes tied with pink and yellow ribbons, and these were brought to the front door for my mother to arrange in my grandmother's antique urns and vases. She'd taken a flower arranging class – it's all the rage you know – I heard her telling my father. I didn't understand how one could be angry with flowers, but my mother was often upset with one thing or another and so this didn't particularly take me by surprise.

The dining and drawing rooms were an oasis of elegance and calm as compared to the kitchen, where ovens blasted waves of unrelenting heat and a small army of cooks feverishly bustled from larder to cooker. This was all orchestrated by large florid man in chef's whites who would bellow, "Met tes pieds au fesse!" and throw whatever was on hand at the poor sod that didn't do his bidding fast enough. He reminded me of Surrey, our neighbour's overweight bulldog, and I might have laughed if the thought of venturing into his domain hadn't filled me with dread. I'd peek through the swing door, waiting for the perfect moment to scurry to the larder; Clara the new maid recently hired after my mother let go of the last one for transgressions unknown, had taken a liking to me, setting aside a plate of savories and sweets on a low shelf, behind the butter and cream. I'd quickly empty the treats in the pockets of my trousers and hurry out to my favorite hiding spot in the garden. It was a good spot, behind the boxwood hedge running along the back of the towering terraced house circling the green we shared with our neighbours. They were towering to a six year old boy; big and imposing and casting long shadows in the late afternoon light. But this became part of the magic, imaging myself a knight stalking a fearsome dragon, bidding my time while savoring my loot and reading a favorite book.

All good things must come to an end - it wasn't long before my well starched and pressed nanny came looking for me. She'd call my name in the sing song voice of her native Ireland, and I knew there would be what for to pay if I didn't respond to her summons. I'd reluctantly come out of hiding, wiping off flakes of pastry from my face with my shirt sleeve. It was time to come inside, she'd say, you have get ready for your maman. I followed with an air of someone being taken to the gallows, but then stop to take a look in the dining room; delicate fine bone chain and antique silverware glowed softly in the candle light. This splendid sight lifted my mood, as I was partial then as I am now to beauty and the quiet joy it brings me. A last glance at the flowers delivered earlier that day and now artfully arranged in gilded urns before being led up the stairs, the scent of hot house roses and calla lilies fresh in my mind as my nanny laid out my best suit of clothing.

The only blemish in my parent's seemly otherwise perfect world was me, their only son. I knew I was an embarrassment, my mother frequently commenting on my shortcomings and wondering how she could have produced such an awkward and unattractive child. This, along with my father's constant criticism, slowly eroded at my self-esteem. Over the years I became shy and withdrawn, believing it better to be invisible then the target of my parents' constant ire.

But despite my many shortcomings, I was expected to be part of the entertainment at these dinners. Dressed in short trousers and patent black shoes, my nanny would push me gently to the center of the drawing room with an encouraging smile. There I'd take a shaky bow before playing a sonata on the piano or reciting a poem from memory. This was sheer agony, and I felt myself trembling at the gaze of a roomful of strangers but knew I had deliver a flawless performance or the evenings would be in ruins – or so I was led to believe.

Learned behaviors die hard, especially those learned at an early age. Years of being taught to show only the good side – keep up appearances - had left me with the deeply ingrained belief that success was measured in how well one was perceived by others. But I would fail at this exercise again and again, failing to impress, at least in the eyes of my parents, and later at boarding school where I was mercilessly bullied by my classmates. It was only when I started as a surgical registrar did the winds turn – for once my father had something to boast about when it came to his only off spring, and my fellow registrars were in awe of my surgical skills.

And so when Chris pressed me again on how I planned to overcome my "blood problem" as he liked to call it, I glossed over truth, if just a little. I couldn't well tell him of my ongoing struggle to overcome the phobia; one had just to look in the surgery's rubbish bin to find half dissected beef and cow livers. Saying this aloud was like admitting defeat, something I wasn't prepared to do yet again. Once had been bad enough.

Chris sat across from me in the dimly lit dining room of Sedgwick's hotel in Truro, a glass of wine in hand, his gaze hard and searching.

"So you're working on it?" he asked.

"Yes. Why do we have to keep asking?"

"Because my arse is on the line?"

"Well then don't."

"Don't what?"

"Help me."

We were circling each other like two kids in the schoolyard, waiting to see who would back down first. Then out of nowhere came a thought that stopped me cold in my tracks – What would Louisa make of this, the two of us squabbling like two overgrown children? Most likely laugh it off and defuse the situation by placating us both with a few well-chosen words. I longed for her at that moment more than I had since she'd left Portwenn.

I had turned away from Chris and found myself looking at the fire crackling in the grate, not wanting him to see what was going through my mind. He had an uncanny ability to see through pretense and read hidden emotions, a skill that served him well as chair of the Patient Care Trust but was otherwise rather disconcerting, especially to someone like me.

When I turned to him again, I saw he was shaking his head and had a grin on his face.

"You're a right bugger, Ellingham. Of course I'll help, but you have to do your part. Think about seeing a psychiatrist. It can't hurt and you never know it might help." He raised his glass, half filled with wine. "But enough said, time enjoy ourselves. I rarely get out these days, between work and the kids."

The conversation moved on to the tedious but safe topic of departmental politics, and he solicited my advice on a particularly tricky situation involving a GP in Delabole.

"He takes up with one woman, than drops her for another. I know he doesn't have much of an opportunity to meet woman outside the village, but why can't he stick to one? This serial dating is causing a ruckus with the villagers, and my office is swamped with calls. And let's not mention the breach of ethics – many of them are patients. I thought we took an oath not to covet patients or something like that."

"Whatsoever house I may enter, my visit shall be for the convenience and advantage of the patient; and I will willingly refrain from doing any injury or wrong from falsehood, and from acts of an amorous nature," I said.

"What?"

"The Hippocratic Oath."

"Count on you to remember it cold twenty years after we graduated from med school." He looked at me thoughtfully. "Have you heard from Louisa?"

"Why?"I asked warily.

"Just asking. The situation in Delabole made me think of you and Louisa."

I felt a flash of warmth flood my face. "Look here, Louisa was going to transfer her care to Wadebridge after, the well…"

"Wedding that wasn't. No need to get tetchy. I was just asking."

Chris was a strategist by nature and every question or comment had a purpose. I became uneasy, knowing full well he wasn't "just asking", and decided the best course of action was to not say anything. So we sat in silence, the noise of silverware on crockery and laughter from a large party seated across the room filling the void.

A log shifted in the hearth, and Chris sighed as he reached for his wine glass. "She's in London, right? If all goes as plan you'll be living there sooner than later. Have you given any thought to seeing her again?"

I thought to be in the clear, after we agreed to table for the subject of my blood phobia, at least for now. But everything with me was complicated these days – I had a burning desire to return to surgery fanned by boredom with general practice and an intense dislike of the village and villagers. It had been tolerable when Louisa was still part of my life, but now that she was gone…

"No, I have no intention of seeing her again," I heard myself saying.