In the Name of the Father
Chapter 2 – The Crying Game
"There's my sweet boy. Good morning! Up with the chickens today aren't we?" I was bleary eyed but the presence of my tiny son was immensely cheering and despite the early hour of his waking and the fact that he seemed to be both wet and hungry as well as fussy couldn't dampen my mood.
Suddenly Martin sat bolt upright in the chair where he had been sleeping. "Bloody Hell!"
"Martin! It's not his fault. He doesn't know what time it is."
"No, it's not that. You said chickens. I forgot about the damn chickens." He raked his hand through his usually impeccable hair and it stood on end.
"What chickens?"
"JOAN's chickens. Blast. Her place is probably overrun with starving animals and irate tourists looking for their tea. I need to go."
"Oh, Martin." I couldn't help smile at the thought of Martin mucking in as a farmer or a B & B host at Joan's.
Martin stood up and squared his shoulders. He was still dressed in his suit, and he hadn't as much as loosened the knot in his tie. "I have some . . . er . . . difficult calls to make. But don't go anywhere. I'll be back to pick you both up around, say, eleven."
"Oh. Your dad, then? You have to tell him about Joan?"
"God, no. I'll let the solicitor deal with that after the funeral. I told Dad he'd better not set foot within 100 miles of Portwenn when he was here last, at least while I'm here. But I do have to call the undertaker. And the vicar. And find out where my car was towed and where the removal company took my belongings. And find someone to look after the farm. And then I have to call Auntie Ruth. And I can't even think about calling Imperial yet – I've only two weeks until I am due to start there."
"Well the undertaker is Ronnie Clyde. He's a contemporary of Joan's and I'm sure he'll do right by her. Do you think Phil Pratt would help out at Joan's? He's the closest neighbor and I am sure he'd help Joan."
"Ah, well. He'd probably help Joan but I don't think he'd help me."
I got the picture. "Have you run into Jack Chester yet? He and his wife, Bea, have bought Danny's mum's place. They're a nice family – I have Jake and Jemima in year five up at school – and I am sure he'd be happy to help." I was thinking hard to find a farmer whom Martin wouldn't have alienated already, and it was difficult to do.
"Maybe. "
"Who's your Auntie Ruth?"
"Dad's youngest sister. She is quite a bit younger than Dad and Auntie Joan actually – they were both born before the war and she didn't come along until after Grandfather was demobbed."
"I see. I don't recall seeing her around here."
"No – she never liked the country. She's a Londoner. Completely mad – infuriating really. She's more like Dad than Auntie Joan is – er, was - though she's just as stubborn and bossy as Joan. I have to make the funeral arrangements first or she'll just take over and we'll get something weird and creepy."
I had been seeing to the nappy change while we were talking and our son, whom I had given up thinking of as Davy, was now in a better frame of mind. I handed him to Martin for a quick cuddle before he had to leave. Once again I was struck at how much more at ease Martin seemed when the baby was in his arms.
He reluctantly gave the baby back to my care after I was settled in the bed with the pillows arranged for nursing, my various body parts discreetly covered with a blanket so as not to offend Martin's sense of propriety. He leant down and kissed the baby's head and then startled me by kissing my cheek as well. My heart was pounding and I wanted to put my arms around his neck and kiss him properly. However, my hands were fully occupied with the baby and his breakfast, so a proper clinch would have to wait.
"See you later, then Martin," I said, wistfully.
He nodded and took his leave.
I looked down at my son, and said to him "so what are we going to call you, hmm?"
X X X X X
"Louisa?"
"Yes, Martin?" I looked up at his eyes in the rear view mirror from my perch in the backseat beside the baby.
"Can I stay at your place tonight? I went over to Joan's this morning but I don't think I can quite manage staying there tonight." His voice sounded ragged, and I could only imagine what it cost him to ask.
"Of course you can. I can't say how much sleep you'll get with this one around but you're welcome to stay as long as you like." Even as I extended the invitation I wasn't sure what he – or I - had in mind.
After carefully parking the car near my house, Martin came around to help me out and to carry the baby in his fancy new car seat. My original plan had been to borrow Darren's old one from my neighbors, Tina and Art Collins. But when I asked Martin to stop by and pick it up before coming to hospital, he had apparently decided to go out and buy a new, top of the line model instead. I suppose it made more sense for Martin to buy one than it had for me – he owned a car and I didn't. He had kept us waiting half an hour in the car park while he installed it in the Lexus and he seemed inordinately proud to be using it to carry our son across the threshold of home.
Although bringing baby home had seemed like a great and joyous occasion, the reality of caring for a helpless and demanding newborn without the aid of the hospital staff sunk in rather quickly. Feed, change, wind, cuddle, and then start all over again. Our son certainly had a pair of lungs on him.
The baby had peed on Martin's tie, spit up on his jacket, and had a nappy blow out on the knee of his trousers. To his credit, despite his obvious frustration over these events, Martin soldiered on and just muttered about the dry cleaners. By midnight we were both exhausted and at our wits' end.
We had managed to quiet the baby and put him to sleep in his Moses basket next to my bed. I was dying to go to sleep and suddenly realized that I hadn't given much thought to the not insignificant issue of where Martin intended to sleep himself. As I cleaned my teeth and slid shapeless maternity pyjamas over my still-swollen body, I realised I didn't bloody care. He could sleep standing up like a horse as long as he didn't keep me from my own rest.
When I returned from the lavatory, I was surprised but relieved to find Martin sitting on the edge of my bed in pyjamas of his own, simply gazing at the baby. I was suddenly self-conscious about how I looked. I wished I had the energy to primp but all I could think about was closing my eyes.
Martin turned to me as I slid into bed. Without a word he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me back against his chest. It felt familiar and so natural, as if the previous nine months had never occurred. I let out a contented sigh and was asleep before I could say good-night.
X X X X X
Somehow we got through Sunday. Martin met with the undertaker and the vicar and made a seemingly endless series of additional calls on his mobile. He made two trips to the farm – one to meet Jack Chester and go over the farm chores and the second to return Buddy who had stowed away in the Lexus on the way back. I would have been fine with having Buddy to stay, at least temporarily, but Martin was adamant that the dog's lack of hygiene would be harmful to the baby and so I left him to it.
From the kitchen window, we watched the commotion caused by the new doctor setting up shop in the surgery across the way. It was going to be so strange seeing that building with a new occupant. Martin was very closed-mouth about it as usual, and we had no opportunity to discuss his plans for his career and his move to London.
We weren't any closer to agreement on what to call our son either. I had given up on David – even I couldn't bring myself to call him that now that I had met him. Martin responded every time I called the baby "Marty" so that seemed out too.
"Martin, what if we named him after Joan?"
He looked up from the vegetables he was chopping. "Joan? For a boy?"
"Well a variation. John, maybe?"
Martin looked pensive. "I like John but we can't use it. Not to honor Joan. There would be . . . gossip. Jonah? Would that be better?"
"God, no. Not in a fishing village. He'd hear no end of teasing about his whale."
"Hmm. Hadn't thought of that. We could call him after you – Louis. I like that one." He gave me a small smile with this one.
"Like Marty, I think it would be too confusing to have Louis and Louisa in the same house."
Before we could go on any further, our unnamed son began squalling and the task was once again set aside.
X X X X
The funeral was set for Tuesday to give Martin's Auntie Ruth a chance to get down to Cornwall. On Monday afternoon, we set off for the shops with the baby in the enormous blue pram that Bert Large had given me at my baby shower. I needed something suitable to wear to the funeral, we needed to restock the larder, and Martin wanted to pick up some things from Mrs. Tishell. While I popped into the dress shop, Martin took the baby over to the chemist's and I agreed to meet him at Bert's restaurant in half an hour so we could plan the funeral lunch and enquire about Pauline.
When I came out of the dress shop with my parcel, I saw that the pram was still parked outside Mrs. Tishell's and so I wandered over to see if I could catch up with Martin. After gushing over me and telling me how adorable my son was, Mrs. Tishell did get around to telling me that Martin had raced off towards the surgery a few moments ago at the request of Joe Penhale.
Wondering what on Earth was going on, I started up the hill towards the surgery until I met Joe Penhale. I was shocked to see that our illustrious policeman was carrying my son. Martin hadn't been very happy having the midwife or the paediatrician handle the baby so I couldn't begin to imagine the circumstances under which he would entrust him to Penhale's care, knowing as I did his regard for our constable.
"Joe? What's going on? Where's Martin?"
"Don't you worry, Louisa, everything is under control." As he drew nearer, I snatched the baby out of his arms, to reassure myself that he was fine.
"But what happened?"
"The new doc, that is Doctor Dibbs, had an accident. Doc Martin is looking after things until the ambulance arrives."
"Oh, my. What happened to her?"
"I'm not authorised to disclose that; not to a civilian."
"Fine. " I tried to control my frustration. "Will you just get the pram for me then? I'll go up to the surgery and ask Martin myself."
X X X X X
What a mess! The new doctor had broken a rib and punctured a lung by falling off a ladder. What she was doing on the ladder Martin had not bothered to tell me. After an immediate diagnosis and another miraculous life saving procedure, Martin had summoned the ambulance and sent her off to hospital, with her practice manager/husband in tow. The patients had somehow convinced Martin to take over the afternoon surgery list so the baby and I were on our own for our visit to Bert's. I swallowed hard when I heard Martin bellow for Pauline, almost automatically, then catch himself and find the patient's notes on his own.
I had come to the Large Restaurant make arrangements for Joan's funeral lunch, but that was set aside for a while as Bert fussed over my son and tut-tutted over his lack of a name. The fact that so much had happened in the last forty-eight hours was not lost on Bert of all people, who had been close to Joan and who also was faced with Pauline's injuries and Al's angst over them. Pauline had been released from hospital on Sunday and managed one night at Bert's before declaring she needed to get away from Portwenn to clear her head. She had taken Joan's death extremely hard and felt the village would blame her for not being able to save Joan's life. With a heavy heart, Al had driven her over to Plymouth to spend some time with Elaine and Greg. I knew her absence would break Bert's heart as well as Al's and hoped Pauline would make a speedy recovery and return to her home in Portwenn soon.
Martin went straight from the surgery to the railway station at Bodmin Parkway to retrieve his Auntie Ruth. He got her settled at the farm before coming home, so the evening was nearly gone by the time we were reunited.
The cheesy pasta I had thrown together for sustenance between parenting tasks was not up to his gustatory standards and he had a very cross look when I offered it to him. I was hurt when he implied that my sloppy eating habits would fail to provide proper nutrition to our son, but I bit back my retort, in the knowledge that he had too much to figure out right now to think about tact.
I persuaded him to sit down on the sofa and hold the baby. He let me rub his shoulders a bit and the back of his neck and I felt him relax. I wasn't sure if it was my presence or the baby's but I was glad he had found something of a refuge after all he'd been through today. Despite the fact that we still hadn't talked about "us" or named our child or discussed his career plans or addressed any of the myriad of topics that hung unresolved like bubbles in the air between us, I couldn't help but feel a cozy closeness being with the two most important people in my life. We three were quickly becoming a family whether we intended to or not.
When the baby started to fuss, I took him to feed him. Martin still looked away pointedly while I arranged myself. His sense of propriety was positively archaic, particularly for a doctor. While the baby ate hungrily, Martin warmed up some tinned soup and sliced some apples for his own supper.
"Are you ready? For tomorrow, I mean?"
He looked up from his meal. "As ready as one can be, I suppose. No one looks forward to something like this."
"How is your Auntie Ruth taking things?"
"As you would expect. Ready to dive in with some mad plan – I wouldn't be surprised if she got up to recite some verse in the original Greek in the middle of the sermon."
"She sounds like quite a lady – I am looking forward to meeting her."
He made a moue of disgust and went back to his supper.
"I've been thinking about names some more."
"Hmm?"
"What about Jory? It's a nice Cornish name. Not fussy."
"For a boy? Not very masculine. And why a Cornish name?"
"Well he is a Cornish boy," I pointed out, with something of a pout. Despite his declaration that the baby's Christian name could be Martin or David or whatever I wanted, he wasn't being very cooperative.
"Edmund. That's a good English name. Edmund Ellingham"
I ignored the surname debate, leaving that for another day. "Edmund? That sounds like somebody's grandfather. Not a very modern name. I'd rather have something more current – Oliver maybe? Or Noah."
"Oliver is modern? Sounds Dickensian to me. And Noah is as old as the flood."
And on it went. He thought Gary was a lout, Neil was a prat, and Tony was a git. Alexander would never learn to spell his name. Martin had an objection to every name I came up with. His only suggestion was William.
"So baby, do YOU like William?" Our son screwed up his face and bawled and that was the end of William.
X X X X X
Somehow we got through the funeral. Martin had put up double the usual amount of psychological armour and you risked a tongue-lashing if you got within ten feet of him. His Aunty Ruth WAS a bit peculiar but did not make much of a scene, other keening incomprehensively in Gaelic as the casket was carried out, much to Martin's disgust.
The villagers turned out in force – Joan was beloved by all and everyone wanted her to have a good send off. They were less sure what to make of Martin as mourner-in-chief and of course they were all bursting with curiosity at what he was still doing in Portwenn, what was going on with me, and why the baby didn't have a name yet.
He looked positively shattered. On top of his own grief, he was forced into playing host and also enduring the attempts of the well-meaning to comfort him. After watching him uncomfortably shake hands with some of the mourners, I had an idea. I whispered to Bert and a couple of others that they should really be consoling Ruth. She reveled in the attention and that gave me the chance to pull Martin outside.
"Are you alright? Can I get you anything?" I asked him.
"No. Nothing." He leant against the wall, looking like he needed it to hold him up.
I lifted the baby out of the pram and carefully transferred him to Martin's arms. Both father and son seemed to visibly relax at the contact. Martin tucked the baby up under his chin and rested his face against the tiny warm head. I patted them both.
"Take as long as you like. There's a nappy and a bottle in the pram if you need them. I'll go in and make sure everything's under control."
The look he gave me spoke volumes of relief, and gratitude and maybe even love.
X X X X X
As we walked slowly back to my cottage after the funeral and the lunch, Martin told me a little more about Doctor Dibbs and her accident. She'd be out of commission for six months or so and the PCT was in a real bind. Chris Parsons had called and asked Martin if he would consider taking the post temporarily while she recuperated.
"How would you feel if I stayed in Portwenn for a bit? It would give me a chance to sort things out at the farm and give you a hand with the baby."
"Well I'd be happy to have you in Portwenn if you are happy being here. But what about London, Imperial? You worked so hard getting over your phobia. Will they hold the job in London for you?"
"Chris thinks he can persuade them. Paradoxically, it is apparently easier to find a temporary vascular surgeon than a GP willing to come to Portwenn for six months. He thinks he can get some American to come over and cover at Imperial if I agree."
"Well that would be wonderful." I didn't know how to articulate my joy at the chance to try again to build a relationship with Martin, with the shared love for our son a new mortar to hold us together.
"If you're sure you won't be unhappy about this, I'll call Chris in the morning."
"As long as you're happy, I'll be happy."
He looked at me and then took my hand in his and held it. There was a hint of a smile on his lips as he pushed the pram with his other hand. All was well. As we turned the corner toward my door, he leant down and kissed me softly on the lips.
I heard a wolf whistle and my eyes flew open, looking wildly for the roaming pack of teenage girls. I saw no one until I looked at the door of my own house. There a woman in a wild gypsy skirt sat perched on a suitcase. Martin gave me a quizzical look and I shrugged.
"So is this the grandson I've been hearing about?" asked the woman.
I looked at Martin as my heart leapt in my throat. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
"Mum?" I asked incredulously.
To be continued . . .