Chapter 20 – Kippers

I really needed a place near the school and Joan did keep pushing me to stay with her at her farm. But it was so far from town. I'd either have to bother her for a ride to get to and fro or have to take a taxi. I was working full time at the Portwenn School now and in spite of Mr. Strain's breakdown he was still paying me rent on my house, so my money situation was much improved. I can actually pay to rent a cottage now, the pub being far too noisy when I needed to mark school papers. But I told Joan a place of my own was needed within waddling distance of the school. That ruled out most of the cottages further away from the harbor. But most of those were newer with very modern conveniences, so some of those rents were very high.

I put the whole SGA scan thing into the back of my mind, knowing that I'd only make myself sick with worry if I kept thinking of it. But the trip back to the village from Truro it was difficult. Buddy was a fine traveling friend though and I really enjoyed playing with the little dog as Joan drove. The little dog lay down on the seat between us and rested his fuzzy head against my belly. He was warm and soft and he held his little doggy tongue out as he panted away. I'd like to have a dog someday. We never had one as a kid. Dad always said they were too expensive, but he did manage to find money for himself and the ponies. So no dog of our own; I had to make do with neighbor's pets and the village strays. I still can't fathom why Martin can't abide them.

Joan drove up next to Mr. Routledge's place, which was at the end of row within which was my cottage. I'd come nearly full circle, it seemed.

Joan went on how she's heard the old man wanted to go into care at a nursing home, so he might be agreeable for renting his cottage to me.

"Seems a bit odd just to knock on his door. I haven't seen him in years," I said. The man was a bit of a recluse I remembered; an old shop clerk. He was one of the Portwenn old townsmen, and used to work in one of the ship stores which were so numerous when the fishing fleet was much larger. Feeling rather foolish at this sudden visit, I slid out of Joan's truck.

"If he offers you tea make sure you wash the mug!" called Joan, which gave me some warning of what to expect.

I knocked and the old fellow called me in. First off it was quite the mess. Stacks of foam take away boxes stacked here and there, piles of newspapers and magazines, all very cluttered - but the one room on the first floor had a wonderful view of the harbor. And there was a very odd mixture of smells. Sort of a fishy and burned odor as well as a urine smell.

"Meals on Wheels brings me my meals, which is good as I'm not as good on my pins as I used to be," he explained. He sat in a worn-out overstuffed chair with his back to the window, totally ignoring the beauty outside, looking at me past piles of clutter. His white hair was askew, he'd clearly not shaved in days, and he had a funny aroma all his own.

I wandered about the room looking at the ancient dark beams overhead, the kitchen cabinets and the cooker. It all seemed so serviceable! I noticed the stairs heading up were filthy but the treads were waxed. Very nice wood it looked too, under the dirt. A good cleaning and a lick of paint here and there and this would be so nice for me, and the baby, when it came. Oddly I always thought of the baby as an 'it' not really wanting to think about it as a boy or a girl; for if I had expectations and it was born the other sex, I'd not want to feel disappointed.

"This is so nice, Mr. Routledge! I'd be very happy living here, if this was mine," I told him. "Such a lovely house!" I turned around thinking that I could really make this very nice. I'd put the sofa over there in the window, after I tossed that ancient piano and sideboard.

He looked downcast. "Aye, I know, but the place is a mess. Can't keep it clean like I used to. And that tosser Doc Martin says I'm not sick enough to go into care! I had a heart attack this morning and I had to argue with that girl of his to force him to come see me!"

For a man who'd diagnosed his own heart attack in the AM and was now sitting bolt upright holding his cane and complaining of the GP, he looked somewhat fit. Imagining a heart attack was the obvious guess. He probably just needed company.

"I'm certain if you were really sick…" I started to say, and then my nose wrinkled as I went by the cooker. "What is that smell?" It made me almost rush outside and spew. Granted I was far more sensitive to smells then I used to be, my pregnancy having given me a dog's nose it seemed, but there was something wrong in here.

He sighed in answer. "I dropped a kipper down behind the cooker."

Oh god! The vomit almost did come forth. Kippers - gutted, split, and smoked herring - were endemic in the region. I didn't fancy them myself, but quite a few did.

"Home health service - no damn good! They can't reach it," he muttered, "or don't care! Last hot breakfast I've had. Now a nice fried kipper, an egg, with slices of brown bread and butter – that's a real breakfast!"

He had wolfed down the last of my jelly babies, the paltry remnants of which I'd given him as a gift; a very poor offering I knew. Just as well he ate them and not me. I'd stood at the mirror this morning and examined the wreck that pregnancy was making of my formerly trim body. Oh well, I suppose Martin was right. They were useless calories. So why do I keep fancying them?

"And you know…" Mr. Routledge went on.

I sat next to him and lifted the mug of tea he'd poured out.

"Sometimes, Lisa," he kept getting my name wrong so I'd finally given up correcting him, "I can't get upstairs to the toilet, so I just pee in the sink." He pointed with an arthritis bent finger to the corner by the cooker.

I looked down at the chipped mug held mere fractions from my lips and slowly lowered it.

"You want a biscuit?" he asked. "There's some just there by the sink."

I waddled over, picked my way through the litter of a long life and snagged the biscuit pack from the counter. I averted my eyes from the food-crusted dishes and pans piled there, but my nose sent another urgent message to my stomach.

I managed to get back to my seat on the footstool near him and not have to run outside. I gave him a biscuit and took one too, not that I intended to eat it.

"So, Mr. Routledge, if you could go into Care what would you do with this place? Rent it out to tourists?" I sneered, "Or some local? Someone who's lived here their whole life?" I nodded for emphasis. "You know! Still works in the village."

He shook his head sadly. "Not many of those left now is there?"

"Oh, I don't know, there's a few - the shops, the school?" I drew out the last word and smiled sweetly, hoping he'd get the hint.

Mr. Routledge munched on his biscuit, crumbs falling into his whiskers joining the stains and smears on his vest, shabby dressing gown, pyjama bottoms and worn slippers. I didn't even want to think when he'd last changed his clothes or what those odd spots were on his trousers. The house, and the man, needed a good scrubbing top to bottom. I' decided I'd clean his house as well cook him a meal or two and see where things went.

I sighed thinking that if I'd had the courage to ask Martin for his spare room two weeks back, I'd not be sitting on my arse practically groveling before this pensioner. But if I was wishing for things, why not wish that Edith Montgomery was not on the scene, or that Martin had been able to change just a little bit, and we'd gotten married? We'd be all snug in White Rose Cottage, three doors away. The baby kicked and it brought me back into real life.

"Say, Lisa, where do you live?" the old man asked.

I gave him my brightest smile possible. "Well, in the pub at the moment, and I was wondering…"

0000000

I was walking across the Platt when my aunt screeched her dirt smeared truck to a halt next to me. "Auntie Joan."

"Martin! Scan went well," she practically shouted. "Thought you'd want to know."

She was all smiles, and I was glad to see her so happy. Joan had seemed a bit on edge lately. She looked fit but running the farm must be a strain for her. Uncle Phil's death years back did not leave her very well off so I supposed she'd struggled over the years. Not that the independent woman she was would ever accept help from me. She was an Ellingham after all, and each of my family has a rigid cast iron spine, a hot temper, and a stubborn streak a mile wide. We'd not accept help even when at death's door.

"Louisa has made it abundantly clear she wants me to have nothing to do with it!" I shouted. Yes I wanted to hear how the scan went, yes I was interested in Louisa's welfare, yes I… well, I wanted a lot of things. None of which was likely to come true for me. I wanted Louisa to let me… care for her – at least the medical, if not the spiritual.

Joan set her mouth and said. "And you do as you're told?" she asked belligerently.

"YES!" I shouted, feeling blood fly to my face.

Joan humphed. "That will be a first."

Her truck dropped into gear and she drove off, leaving me standing there wanting to ask another question. I looked up at the now blue sky, taking in the white washed cottages and trim black roofs of the houses. The air smelled of salt air, fish, an overfilled bin outside the pub, and diesel exhaust, but it was cool this spring day as I started walking back to surgery.

I'd taken my coffee at the door of the surgery today, looking at the village, wondering how, if I could exorcise myself of the curse of haemophobia, I could leave it. Nearly four years here, having built up a circle of… not friends … neighbors, that is people I knew, patients.

Edith was prompting me to return to London. To leave this backwater and get back into surgery she said. Where I belonged she insisted. She was probably right.

Louisa wanted nothing to do with me as I told my told my aunt. The village has too many people like Joe Penhale and his odd painter brother, both of them acting weird. The daily chatup by Al upon Pauline in my reception was wearing on my nerves, as if he didn't see enough her since she'd moved in with him.

I sighed as I passed an open bed and breakfast window, and the smell of fried kippers wafted to my nose – a nasty smell. No matter if I live one more day or another hundred years, the smell of fried kippers will always make me think of Portwenn.

I marched back to surgery, but my mind wondered what Louisa's ultrasound scan showed. I should call her mobile and ask. She'd not like that though. Not your problem, Martin, she'd said. I'll take care of it. Those words echoed in my head and they burned like fire.

Do as I'm told? My aunt asked. Yes, I would do as I was told but it was frightfully hard.

But the question I really wished to ask Joan was what she thought I should do – about Louisa – about the baby – about London?