Chapter 17 – Thank You

I had to bin my shoes for as they dried over the next two or three days, the sea-salt twisted them into unrecognizable black lumps, looking like they came from a coal mine. The suit could be salvaged and luckily I'd dropped my mobile as I raced into the ocean after Mr. Strain. The man was now in hospital being treated for porphyria and the treatment was helping. He had only a vague recollection of the Rosscarrock Cove incident but was so remorseful and depressed when he heard what had happened he had to be restrained.

The psychiatric and medical treatment started to work rapidly, after that though, and when he regained most of his cognitive abilities called the head of the Portwenn School Board of Governors to say that he would not return for some time.

"My doctor's believe it's to be the best course at this time," he said into the mouthpiece. "Yes! Yes, that's right… oh? Really. Right." He put his hand over the bedside handset. "He wants to speak to you."

Strain handed over the phone and I took it with some apprehension. I'd driven to Truro to check in on Mr. Strain and to give medical advice in his case. "Ellingham."

"Doc Martin! Say, I've heard what you did the other day on the beach. Kept things all hunky-dory!" The man sounded positively ecstatic. The head of the school board of governors was speaking.

I did not need to hear his platitudes. "Yes."

"And kept the children and Miss Glasson from harm as well."

"Just doing my job." I hated these sorts of confabs!

"More than that I'd say! So when do you think he can return to work? If it's too long, we'll likely keep him on disability and employ a temporary head teacher."

I glanced over at the house officers lined up to examine Mr. Strain as he'd become a medical learning case, his condition being rare.

"Have to see." I was uncomfortable speaking to the man in front of the patient, for as well as being a governor of the school I was also his doctor, so I was conflicted with responsibilities. "Goodbye," I said and rung off.

Mr. Strain looked up at me with a relieved face. "Thank you, Doctor Ellingham. Without you…" he shrugged. He then grinned at the mass of young doctors waiting to speak to, poke, and prod him. "Come on then," he waved to them all, "let's give it a go!"

I stalked from the hospital and drove back to the village. With Strain having broken down, there was now at least a full time opening at the school. Louisa was the most likely candidate and that was good, or so I thought, for she very likely needed the money.

But my lips curled as I knew how seriously she took her work and just now she needed to start resting, with the pregnancy advancing. She'd probably teach herself to death, being so conscientious. I knew Louisa well enough to know that much about her and I also knew that she would not take my advice, no matter the circumstances; our school dustup was proof of that.

As I drove back to Portwenn I thought of her trying to live and work after school closed at the noisy pub, thinking also that the sheets on my guestroom bed were newly laid on and well pressed, and my guest towels were soft and absorbent. If only she'd let me ask her to stay in the surgery!

The miles passed and I couldn't think of anything but Louisa and the baby.

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The school went back to normal straight away, as no longer being under strain so to speak, the staff could get back to teaching and hopefully the students back to learning.

I was quite touched as though by the parade of co-workers who came to see me, plus quite a few parents, so thankful that things at the beach had not fared too badly. I was trying to teach my third graders about weather a few days later, when Carrie Tyne raised her hand.

"Yes Carrie?"

"Miss Glasson?" the brown-haired girl asked. "Does this mean you'll be at the school all day now? My mum said that if the school governors didn't hire you full time then they're all as mad as the head master!"

All the other children giggled.

"Now children!" I said trying keeping my voice even. "You know we have talked about Mr. Strain. The head master was sick, that's all, and he's in hospital getting better."

"My brother said he's loony!" shouted Timmy Simpkins from the back.

The children all laughed, the sort of laugh you give out after dashing across a road, and a car whizzes by just behind you, for you'd not been paying attention and but for a false step and you'd have been run over.

I sighed and waited for their giggles die down. I parked my bum on the desk and looked them straight in the eye. "Now look, you lot!" This was a time to lay down the law. "Mr. Strain got sick that's all! How would you feel if it was you that got sick and people called you mad or whispered gossip behind your back?" This was something I knew about, all too well. "Let's say that Timmy here," I pointed at the class clown, "fell out of a tree and broke his arm. Would it be fair to say that he did it on purpose or because his arm was broken that he was some sort of a bad person?"

A few comments came back. "No Miss Glasson."

"Right! You remember to be fair, now! Let's try to treat people the way we want to be treated." I really wanted to throw my own experiences into this discussion, but I was their teacher so I had to at least pretend to be an adult. I put on my best smile. "Now, since you mentioned it, let's all work to make great big get-well card to send the head master, and we'll all sign it."

Charley held up his hand, the one that Martin had stepped on during our beach rescue. "Miss Glasson? Can we send a card to Doctor Ellingham and to PC Penhale too?"

"Why Charlie I think that is a fabulous idea! Let's get out our markers…" so three cards were made. Trudy and Alicia, two of our teachers, were heading Truro-way the next day and they took Mr. Strain's card, all covered with smiley faces, off-kilter flowers and sea shells, and scrawled names.

The card for PC Penhale I dropped in his post box on an evening ramble, the pub noise getting a bit loud that night. I'd thought about having Joe Penhale come to the school to pick it up, but since he was the sort who believed that his two best tools in the community were verbal negotiation and pepper spray, I really didn't want him lecturing my students.

The third card I put aside to take to Martin personally, along with a note from me, expressing my fervent thanks.

I dressed carefully the next morning even though it was my off morning; only working afternoons. I chose a blue denim jacket and a grey denim washed-out skirt, black stockings with a white vest and short sleeved shirt. The shirt buttoned all the way up and all the way down, but it covered my bump fairly well. I left the top three buttons open though. The vest was skin tight and it was long enough to cover the nasty elastic band at the top of the skirt. Maternity wear did cover all the lumpy bits but they felt… odd. Having no waist for another three months, it felt bizarre to battle gravity which was always tugging down on trousers or skirts, the items held up only by friction and compression, and sometimes a wish and a prayer.

I ate breakfast and was brushing teeth when I realized I'd not felt the baby move since yesterday. I knew Joan would be making vegetable deliveries and I didn't think this an emergency, but I'd resolved to see Martin getting the kid's thank you note as well as mine in person, so the cards were already stuffed into my purse. I could just pop on up there and have him… take a look. I was certain he'd do that much for me.

I tried to be very casual as I walked up Rosscarrock Hill to the surgery, but as I saw Martin emerge drinking coffee, my fears rose. I'd told him I was being treated in Truro, not by him. I was still distressed by his reaction to my pregnancy and his crack about feminist point scoring really ruffled my feathers.

And then there was Edith, somehow popping up from nowhere at odd times. What if I walked up there and Edith sprang from the cottage, threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss, while my pregnant body was waddling up there? That would be far too much to bear.

Martin turned and he saw me approach and I couldn't do it. I turned just a bit and peered over the cliff wall, like I was looking at birds or boats. From the corner of my eye, I could see him starting to walk my way, but Joan Norton's little white dog Buddy went running up the hill towards Martin. He hated that dog - like all dogs. He turned one-eighty and I turned ninety degrees and we parted, never having gotten closer than thirty feet. But as I clip-clopped my way back down the hill, the baby inside lay inert and I choked back a sob. Thank you Martin for all your help!