Chapter 16

Acceptance

Martin was quite stricken when Edith offered him the statue of Amitofu. It was very much like a figure his great-grandfather had in his London flat. If he were not feeling well, the old man would close his eyes and mumble something while touching the statue. Soon, he would open his eyes and smile at Martin.

After several visits, Martin did not want to leave and would boldly ask the nanny if he may stay on a bit longer. When she shook her head no, Great-Grandfather told him to close his eyes and repeat a word he patiently sounded out to his great grandson. The repetition of that word throughout his lonely childhood reminded Martin of his great-grandfather and the comfort of his presence. Whether at school, with his parents or even visiting Auntie Joan, if Martin were troubled he would say the word over and over again until he could face his torments.

It was not until Martin was in a Sixth Form class of comparative world religions that he learned of the Buddhist practice of chanting. Reading an assignment in the school library, Martin realized that Great-Grandfather was actually chanting the name "Amitofu," the word he taught Martin.

As a presumed member of the Church of England, Martin was somewhat horrified that he had been sacrilegious these many years by reciting a Buddhist chant. The class teacher, who also served as school chaplain, assured Martin chanting was used in many religions, including the Gregorian chant of the Anglicans and Romans. Martin was an exemplary student, and if the chanting helped with his studies, he should certainly continue.

Continue he did, through both Oxford and St. Mary's. It was not part of his daily life, but faced with a difficult class, assignment or training procedure, the chanting would focus his mind on the task at hand. The only person he ever told of the practise was Chris Parsons. Indeed, he had suggested that Chris try chanting to improve his comprehension. Parsons became a bit more devoted to it than Martin and swore that chanting and Ellingham allowed him to become a doctor.

He had never said a word to Edith about it, but now she somehow had the prescience to produce the statue of Amitofu. He reached out his hand and lightly touched the hands of the Buddha as his great-grandfather would do. Immediately, he had a vision of the old man in his small flat, explaining the puzzles, telling stories or jostling Martin on his knee. The nanny smiled, chatted and – like her young charge - was more at ease than in his parents' house. It was the most joy Martin could remember. Now Edith had brought that memory to him with her gift.

Pressing his lips together and finding himself thinking "Amitofu, Amitofu, Amitofu," Martin looked at her and finally said: "Thank you, Edith, it is a wonderful gift, and I shall always cherish it" – and this part was difficult for him – "and the memory of you."

Edith smiled slightly saying: "Gratitude accepted." Then they walked into each other's arms and let the regrets drain from their hearts. That night they did not make love, but made peace with each other as they talked for hours. Martin spoke first of the kind nannies, teachers, his great-grandfather, Aunt Ruth, Uncle Phil and Aunt Joan. He had a slight memory of his grandparents, but nothing had been impressed on his mind about them. They were neither cruel nor kind.

Then he talked about the sad aspects of his life: his parents' indifference to his problems, the harsh schools, the teachers who questioned his intellect and those who punished his shyness. The singular life of the mind he chose to lead so that his struggles were held at bay. Finally, he confessed to Edith that he, too, had fears about the training he was to embark upon. He knew he could do it, but also knew it would be challenging, exhausting and consume even the little free time he had with her during med school. Now, he would go it alone, but he could do it.

In the morning, they reached for each other in bed and silently, passionately ended their relationship as it began. Martin was to meet with his father at ten and left with neither breakfast nor much of a farewell. Cradling the statue, he bent to kiss Edith as she stood forlornly in the foyer. She could not bring herself to say a final good bye, but instead patted his arm, saying "be well, Ellingham, be well."

Now, twenty years later, Edith glances toward the foyer remembering that terribly sad day which improved only with her parents' arrival in the late afternoon. Ready to join Edith in bidding England good bye, they began with dinner at an Indian restaurant the family had patronized since buying the flat.

On Saturday morning, the car Dad hired took them first to St. Paul's, so that Edith might visit the school's headmistress who was quite impressed by her appointment to Royal Victoria. They walked the short distance from school to the book shop where she worked during her Sixth Form. It specialized in economic texts and finance books and attracted a quiet clientele who had no interest in chitchat or social interchange. This suited Edith well, remarked the shop owner, as she was not one for customer service.

At the British Museum, they roamed through the galleries and had lunch at a café favoured by artists and tourists. After lunch, a charcoal sketch of the three was presented by a young man who acknowledged Dad's generous payment in Russian. Henry Montgomery had a short talk with him in the language he absorbed during his many trips to Moscow. Edith was touched, realizing her father had arranged for the sketch as a remembrance.

The car took them by Buckingham Palace and the Mall and then turned toward Westminster Bridge. There Mum insisted Edith be photographed next to the statue of Boudica, the female warrior who led a revolt against the Roman occupiers of what was now London. Edith recalled a similar photograph of Mum as a young woman hanging in her horse surgery. Dad revealed he had snapped the picture during a week they spent together in London before Mum's return to vet school. Edith's raised eyebrows elicited a deep blush from her mother.

Parliament was their next stop, and Edith followed her parents through the corridors as they cheerily greeted the few people working on Saturday. So many times Edith had made her way to Dad's office after school: waiting for a meeting to end, telling him of a school triumph or chatting with the office juniors who fed her tea and sweets.

That evening, dinner was at a traditional British restaurant where Edith was relieved to see items other than steak and kidney pie on the menu. Not ready to end the night, Dad suggested they search out a jazz club, knowing Edith enjoyed such music. She said no to Camden or Vauxhall - too many memories of Ellingham - so they went to a new spot in Westminster. It was a bit crowded, but the music was quite good. Mum flirted outrageously with a group of young Australian military officers, enticing them to dance with her daughter.

Music and dancing pulled Edith from her dark mood over Ellingham, as did her realization that Mum and Dad had a loving relationship and life beyond their children and busy careers. This then was a marriage she would want. But would it ever have been possible with Martin?

The next morning, they attended service at All Hallows by the Tower, where Mum and Dad were married, and then joined two couples for lunch in Marylebone. Both husbands had served in Parliament nearly as long as Dad and were old friends of her parents.

Conversation among the men quickly turned to politics, but the wives were quite fascinated by Edith's residency. She explained, once again, the new field of reproductive endocrinology and even smiled when one woman archly remarked, "Well my dear, Rupert need only look at me cross-wise, and I'd be pregnant. My endocrinology was quite good!"

By evening, the three were ready for a quiet night to prepare for Edith's morning flight to Montreal. She had only to toss a few things into a bag and her packing would be complete. Over tea and tinned soup, her parents talked only of Edith, her childhood, how proud they were of her, how they wished only the best future for her. She sensed that her mother was having a difficult time not mentioning Martin or grandchildren, so Edith spared her saying: "Don't worry, Mum, there will be someone for me to marry some day. You will have many grandchildren to fill Larchmont Hall again."

Early on Monday, the deskman stopped them as they walked toward a waiting taxi. He had two envelopes for them – one addressed to Mum and one addressed to Edith. They were from Martin Ellingham. Mum looked eagerly at her envelope, hoping – Edith thought – that Martin had written he would be at Heathrow to accompany Edith to Montreal.

When opened, Mum looked crestfallen as the envelope contained only a thank you for his stay at Larchmont Hall. Not wanting to be similarly disappointed, Edith tucked the larger envelope into her bag. Dad was recognized at the British Airways terminal, his starting off point for years of travel, and Edith was accorded quite special service as they waited for her flight to be announced.

Eventually it was, and her parents looked bravely at Edith as they walked with her to the gate. Many hugs and kisses followed and Mum began to cry. Dad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket for her and then withdrew a stiff, square envelope, with "Dr. Edith Montgomery" written precisely across the front. From the embossed address on the envelope, she saw it was from the Prime Minister. How very kind of her to remember Edith, Mum commented brightly.

Over an hour into the flight, Edith had settled in enough to face the note from Ellingham. First, though, she opened the envelope given by her father. It was, indeed, a handwritten message from the Prime Minister. In it she noted with pleasure Edith's many accomplishments and how proud she was to send a daughter of England for training in one of the Commonwealth countries. Wryly she wrote, "rather than the colonies." Edith carefully returned it to the envelope more than pleased by the Prime Minister's sentiment.

After several sips of coffee, Edith took up Ellingham's envelope and slowly opened it. Inside was a single, folded sheet of paper, not surprising given its lack of heft. Edith had to read it several times before it made sense to here. Martin had written a poem for her. And it was beautiful.

Continued. . .