Written purely for entertainment purposes and no infringement of any copyright by Buffalo Pictures is implied or inferred.

My Aunt Joan opened the door of her farmhouse and the smell of roast chicken, white potatoes, sprouts, cranberries in a sauce, stuffing and hot gravy, plus bacon assaulted my nose. I almost shuddered at the sheer amount of calories and fat that we were about to consume.

"Oh, Marty, do come in!" said Joan, her ruddy face in a huge smile. She hugged me and buried her face in my chest.

I managed to hug her briefly then parted from her strong arms. Ducking into the low roofed kitchen where Joan had likely been cooking all day, I could see everything was spic-and-span, cleaned and arranged. "You've been busy. Here." I gave her the bundle of hot house flowers one of my patients had dropped off in gratitude, for as the woman put it "This is the very first Christmas in years I can actually walk without those shooting pains in my toes."

I told her that if she'd stay on her Allopurinol, as I suggested, then she may stay symptom free, if she also stayed on her diet.

Joan smelled the flowers. "Nice." She gave me a sly glance. "From a patient."

"I knew you'd like them," I grunted.

The radio was playing Vivaldi's Magnificat and as I heard the ancient hymn I relaxed, but I didn't quite know why I felt tense.

"You okay?" Joan asked.

Words came out automatically. "Fine."

Her blue eyes pierced me. "No you're not." She patted my arm. "But that's the way you are."

I closed my eyes for a moment. "Mm." I turned to her cooker. "You've been cooking all day?"

Joan smiled at me. "It's Christmas, Martin. When else can I get a chance to entertain?"

I shrugged.

"Care for a sherry?"

"Perhaps with dinner."

"Oh, la de dah. I'm honored."

"Joan…" I stopped myself. "That would be fine."

Joan went back to stirring gravy. "A drink on Christmas. Lord, what's got into you?"

I shrugged again.

"Thought we'd eat in the front room. Got the table cleaned off and everything."

Joan usually kept piles of crochet materials on her oak table, saying she kept it all handy for rainy days. I knew that on the farm even on rainy days there was plenty to do, so the crochet things stayed in the pile.

I went into the front room and the sight of the table clean, polished, and decorated with greenery, candles and ribbons was impressive. I recalled similar displays at home but there our housekeeper and maid made up all our decorations.

Home – home seemed very far away and distant now, after two years in Portwenn, surgery in London, vascular training, general surgery, medical school, university… I paused that thought, not wanting to return mentally to boarding school.

Joan carried in the sherry and set the bottle down. "You seem to be in a brown study."

"Thinking."

"Oh?" She straightened the table settings.

"A large table for two."

"Well, Marty, who should have invited? Muriel Steel? She can't travel much anymore from High Trees, and given the history of Danny and Louisa… well, that wouldn't feel right."

I nodded assent. "I see."

"How is Louisa? Have you seen her? I heard…"

I held up my hand. "She is well. I saw her today."

Something started hissing and bubbling on the cooker and Joan ran off to the kitchen.

In Joan's absence I ran my fingers over the old table, feeling the cracks and fissures of the wood, sealed under many layers of wax. Uncle Phil told me the wood of this table came from a shipwreck back in his great-grandfather's day, so the wood must be well over a hundred and fifty years old. How many ocean voyages had this wood made?

Joan bustled back in. "Chicken's about done. Couldn't find a turkey."

"Chicken is fine."

"I bought this one," she laughed. "I can't be killing my birds when I have a taste for chicken, not when I need them as layers."

"Can I help you with anything?"

"Just enjoy the day, Martin. You said you saw Louisa Glasson earlier?" she asked, returning to that single comment.

"Yes. She asked me in, to her house; I was on a walk. Gave me tea and biscuits. Plus a book."

"A present? Louisa gave you a present?"

"Yes… it's an old book on surgery. Quite valuable, I'm certain. Early nineteen century. Don't know how she found it. Remarkable condition, given its age."

Joan smiled. "My… I'll call Caroline so she can put the news on Radio Portwenn."

"Oh come on!"

"Calm down, Martin. Just teasing."

I headed to the kitchen. "I'll help you carry in the food."

In short order we were eating and the dinner was good, but I took small portions to make up for the variety. Joan was tucking into a second helping of potatoes and chicken while I slowly ate a roll, my first.

"Marty," Joan said, "I'm sorry about - sorry, I upset you."

"No harm done."

She slowly chewed her food, scraped up the last dollop of gravy with the side of her fork and sat back. "A fine dinner."

"You're a good cook, Joan."

"No thanks to my mother, your grandmother. I think the woman could burn water, but always hired good cooks. And my Phil was quite a cook. He could turn the most meager of fixings into a feast. When we started out we were quite poor and almost strangers."

Joan got up and came back with plates for the pudding. "More sherry? God, you haven't had any at all."

"It's alright, Joan. How did you and Uncle Phil meet?"

She laughed. "I came down on the train to see Tintagel with a friend, and she knew this little hotel in Padstow. We were on the bus heading over there when the engine failed – ended up spending the night in the hotel where the Whale is today." She laughed. "That's when I met Phil in the pub."

"Quite a dissimilarity between a London girl and Cornish farmer," I replied.

"Oh my yes." She laughed. "My friend had gone back to our room with a headache and I was alone in the pub. Suddenly this muscular, short and sun-burned man was at my table, pulling out the chair. He plunked two pints down, looked me and and down and said, 'My name's Phil Norton, What's yours, love?'"

She stopped and took a taste of her sherry.

"I see."

"His mates had put him up to trying to make headway with 'the London bird' as he put it." She grinned. "And as they say…"

"That was that," I replied.

Joan smiled. "Pretty much. My father and mother were not at all pleased with me, you know."

I nodded. "Seems to run in the family."

She nodded. "We are what we are Martin. Hard to change the way we are and I'll not sully the day with airing dirty family linen." Joan sipped at her drink. "All long ago." She wiped at her eyes. "Long ago. Phil offered me freedom from my parents."

I knew that things with Joan and Phil had not gone well and she'd found comfort with John Slater, a boatman. But when Phil got sick, Joan tended him until he died. By then Slater had gone away but had come back two summers ago. Then he left as he had found he had heart failure and did not want to burden my aunt. I had to give Slater credit for having some honor at the end, yet here was my aunt all alone, living with ghosts. Might it have been better if he'd spoken to her, told her his story? Then stayed with her for the time he had left?

I looked at my watch. "Getting late."

"You'll not be staying?"

The light was fading. "Perhaps for a while."

Joan stood. "I got you a little something."

"You shouldn't have," I called after her retreating back for I knew how meager her finances were.

She came in lugging a carton. "It's not much."

"From the size of it…" I recalled my lessons. "Thank you."

She put the carton down in front of me. "I had a number of antique shops looking for that. Managed to get a line on one over in Dorset. I hope you like it."

I opened the pasteboard flaps and found a battered mantel clock looking up at me, the hands frozen at 5:12. "This is…" I could see the case was wood and well-aged.

"You do like a puzzle. The shopkeeper says the case is fine, oak, but the works are in pretty bad shape. I thought on long winter evenings you might find it handy, unless you are planning on taking up model ship building."

The case appeared to be in good shape and the glass front piece was not cracked, only clouded by grime and age. "Expensive, Auntie Joan. I can't… accept this!" The case front was decorated with brass work, green with verdigris. "When cleaned up and put right…" I saw her shining eyes. "A lot of work."

"Yes, you can, Marty. The man said the works are pretty well bollixed. But you'll sort it." She bent down and kissed my cheek. "Happy Christmas, Martin."

Third time today I'd either been kissed or have kissed. "Thank you. This is…" I ran my hand down the case. "Very fine. Very…" I flashed on the cold and empty winter evenings ahead. "I can fix this."

Joan clapped her hands. "You always can Martin. That's the thing about you. You see things through. Now," she turned towards the kitchen, "the pudding."

I opened the clock front and examined the face making out a fine etching of planets and moons. I followed Joan and she was just taking the pudding from the oven where it had been warming. "That's a very excellent…" I had to clear my throat, "gift."

My aunt set the pudding on a tray and touched it gently. "Nice and warm. Good thing on a cold day, don't you think?"

Winter was hard here on the coast, where the winds swept in off the sea south of Ireland all the way from North America. The village would be battered by rain, clouds, fog, and snow occasionally, but the timepiece would keep my mind active while I tore it down, carefully cleaning all the pieces, rubbing them free of corrosion, replacing the pieces too damaged to be salvaged, putting right what could be.

Working on clocks was a hobby, my only real hobby, since my grandfather gave me a watch to dismember when I was six. That was the year after the frog, the one I'd been given to dissect.

"Unless you are looking for something else to keep you warm?" Joan's words intruded on my thoughts. "Or someone."

"Hm? Sorry."

"Some sorts turn to drink, but not you. They crawl into the bottle. You're far too intelligent for that."

I'd tried that, but I wouldn't share my sorrow over a lost love with Joan. When Edith Montgomery left for Canada twenty years ago, I was shattered and had tried drink. It was one of the reasons I don't touch it much at all now.

Joan said, "Come on. Let's eat this pudding before it gets cold." She snapped off the overhead lights, poured a dram of brandy over it and lit it, the blue flame lighting up the cramped kitchen.

The light made the room more mysterious, rather than illuminating. Christmas traditions were an odd mix of customs, both ancient and modern, and I'd just as soon ignore it. But those around me, when I was in school, or back in London, or out here, did their best to force my inclusion in their festivities. "Pagan customs plus God. An odd mix."

Joan laughed. "You know in an earlier age you'd have been burned at the state for heresy."

"Times change."

"Not that much, but let's eat," she said, so back at table she dished out portions for each of us.

"Tasty," I told her after tasting the rich cake laced with fruit, peel, nuts, and rich rum.

"Muriel Steel's recipe. When she, Helen Pratt, and I were all newlyweds, we traded recipes back and forth. I've used Helen's once in a while, even my grandmother's, but this is the one I like."

At the mention of the name Steel, I felt my gut clench. I rose and went into the kitchen and turned up the radio to hear the Bach Cantata better. I turned about and found Joan staring at me.

"I've upset you," she said.

I glanced away. "I'd better be getting back."

"You won't stay longer?" I saw her lips quiver.

By reply I slipped into my Burberry.

She came to the door with me. "You don't have to be so alone, Marty. You really don't."

"There might be a call. People will get burned, or sick, or…"

Joan sighed. "Always the doctor." She looked up at me sadly and patted my arm. "Oh, I got the hamper. Thank you."

I routinely ordered a large hamper for her from Fortnum & Mason. "I hope you enjoy it - just not all at once."

That made her laugh.

"Thank you for dinner, Aunt Joan."

She smiled wistfully. "I'm very glad you came, unlike last year."

"Had a patient," I said. It was the truth, for I'd been pretty miserable last year, feeling like an exile. I still missed surgery, but the was a dead end, so I let it go.

She sighed. "Well, Happy Christmas, Martin." She embraced me again and I did hug her back.

I picked up the clock box and went to my car. Joan stood in the doorway, waving and I nodded to her as I drove away. The farm was a burden to Joan and I wondered why she didn't sell up and retire. She'd been out here for so long and it was her home - that was the answer - must be.

It was the work of minutes to get back to the village and I saw Louisa walking along the street, so I stopped and rolled down the passenger side window.

Louisa bent down so we faced each other. "Martin! Hello!" From her flushed face I could see she had been celebrating. "Back from Joan's?"

I nodded. "Had dinner."

"Me as well… Just heading home."

The wind picked up and I saw her shiver. "You'll get cold, get in." I reached across and opened the door. "I'll drive you."

"Oh… okay." She slid inside, her black bubble coat billowed about her as she sat. "I could have walked."

I shrugged. "Going my way." I looked hard at her. "Seat belt?"

"Oh, yeah." She did the harness and I admired her slender hands as she did up the buckle. "Now I'm safe."

I didn't know what to say to that so I drove slowly through the empty streets to her house.

"No one's about - they're all still having a good feed or sleeping it off," she chuckled. "No one's out but us."

I parked the car at her door.

She said, "Ahm, thanks for the buggy ride."

"What?"

"Oh just something my dad used to say."

"Ah." A wind gust rocked the car as I was trying to think of something else to add.

She relieved me of the burden when she spoke. "Did you have a nice Christmas dinner at Joan's?"

"Too much food - too many calories - too much fat." I wrinkled my nose. "Typical fare."

"Martin, it doesn't mean you have to eat like that everyday!"

"No. Good thing we don't."

After another few seconds of awkward silence, I thought of the book. "Louisa… the book… that was very… uhm, unexpected."

She smiled at me and the interior of the car lit up like sunrise. "I knew you'd like it. You don't do surgery anymore… but…" she bit at her lip, "I knew you'd like it."

"I do, I do."

She unsnapped her seat belt. "Best be off."

"Thank you again," I managed to say as she opened the door.

In one swift move she turned back to me and kissed me full on the mouth with her hand at the back of my neck pressing herself against me as much as possible. Her lips were soft and smooth and I tasted her lipstick, which was cherry flavored, while her long hair brushed across my cheek and neck. She smelled of flowers and promise "Martin," she sighed after she broke away. "I…"

"Louisa… uhm…"

"Happy Christmas Martin," she said grinning, her eyes two inches from mine.

"Louisa, I… want to… say…"

Then my mobile rang and she bowed her head.

"Ellingham," I grunted into it.

A woman's voice was yelling out of it. "Doc! Doc Martin? It's Mrs. Wintle! My old man took a fall down the steps, slipped in a puddle he did, and he's bleedin' like a stuck pig! Can you come? I got your number from your Aunt when you didn't answer at surgery!"

"God," I groaned.

Louisa said sadly, "Duty calls. They live out past the main road."

I went to full medical mode. "Is he conscious? Bleeding from where?"

Louisa slid away from me and my heart ached to see her go. "Bye Martin." Her hand touched mine as she got out.

Part of me watched her go while the rest, most I am sorry to say, paid attention to the woman's answers.

"Back of his head, like!"

"Is he breathing?"

"Oh yeah, yeah."

"Where is your house?"

"Well, out the moor road, past the three-way roundabout, turn left on the Gryll's farm road…" the woman nattered on in the typical way of country people giving directions.

I slid the car back into drive. "Yes, yes, keep him warm. Put a compress on the wound… A clean towel would work." I had my medical case in the back seat so I didn't have to go to surgery for anything. One thing I've learned in Portwenn was to be ready for the unexpected.

I drove down the hill to the Platt, did a three point turn and raced back up the hill. Louisa stood outside her house, half waving to me. Unexpected, yes. Unexpected. Christmas was unexpected this year - for me.

The woman on the mobile was now yelling at me about how she wasn't going to ruin one of her good towels, for her drunken sot of a husband.

"Yes, yes, I'm on my way," I snapped and flipped closed my mobile.

I looked back in my rear view mirror and there stood Louisa in front of her house, and she stayed there until a bend of the road cut off my view.

I sighed. "Happy Christmas, Louisa," I said then pressed on to my patient. Perhaps next year Christmas might be a little different.

THE END

I thought this would be a one chapter bit, and it grew to two, but only two as I also wondered what Martin was thinking. Thanks for reading and enjoying Doc Martin in all its forms.

Best wishes, cheers, Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year,

Robspace54