In hindsight, Joan realised it had been quite remiss of her not to warn both of her guests of each other's existence in the cottage that evening.
Now it was her fault that Martin had lost all his impressive adult composure and was gripping the edge of the table as if it were the safety rail on the edge of a very tall precipice; glowering into the middle distance somewhere over her left shoulder, his brow as deeply furrowed as one of Phil Pratt's newly turned fields.
And what of poor Louisa? After an emotionally exhausting day, the girl was now standing in the doorway, bashfully, clasping her empty plate to her chest like a shield, and tugging self-consciously at the hem of her shirt, willing it to be longer. Joan's heart sank.
"Louisa, so sorry we disturbed you." She said, trying to sound gentle, and gesturing in Martin's direction. "My nephew, Martin Ellingham, down from London for the weekend."
Joan looked across at them both anxiously. Louisa's eyes were wide and perplexed and fixed on Joan, while Martin had loosened his hold on the table but continued to studiously avoid looking at either of them.
"Marty, it seems you remember Louisa? She's staying here for a few days. Had a bit of an, aaah, a family emergency. Been rather an overwhelming day, hasn't it Louisa?"
Louisa looked over at him and her expression had changed to curiosity. She was disconcerted that he'd called her 'Wheezer', a name she'd called herself when she was little and had struggled to pronounce her own name. And, now, it was her unspoken private name; a non-de-plume for her secret poems, diary entries and unsent love notes. No one else called her that, ever.
"Hiya." she said flatly.
As if he felt her gaze, Martin straightened himself, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He managed a sideways glance at her and a slight nod of his head.
"Louisa." He replied unenthusiastically, with as much grace as he could muster, unable to quite shake the discomfort he felt at blurting out her childish name. What a ridiculous loss of self control, he thought to himself.
Feeling very uncomfortable and exposed, and with a strong urge to flee the room, Louisa began to shuffle sideways towards the bench.
"Sorry, I'll just pop these in the sink and leave you to it." She said in a quiet and slightly strangled voice, and was relieved when Joan stood up and removed the crockery and the magazine from her tight grasp.
Martin sat down, and ensured his gaze was averted by staring fixedly at his mug of tea.
Joan smiled benevolently at her. "Good night, sleep well."
" 'Night then," Louisa replied, and hurried from the room as quickly as her inadequate garments allowed.
Once through the door, she hurtled up the stairs and into her room, throwing herself into bed, and burying her face in her pillow.
"Oh my God!" She thought, and muffled a shriek of embarrassed laughter. "Way to make a total prat of yourself, Louisa!"
After a few minutes of mentally kicking herself, and wondering what on earth had possessed her to go downstairs at all, her breathing returned to normal and the burning sensation left her face. She rolled over onto her back and hugged the pillow to her chest, her thoughts jumping immediately to her odd encounter with Mrs. Norton's nephew. She'd never even heard him mentioned before. How could he know who she was? Plus, he seemed quite shocked and, well, annoyed really that she was there. Louisa bit down on her lip thoughtfully. It was even more disappointing because, on reflection, with his smart suit and the way he said her name with his posh accent, he was actually a bit of alright.
She sighed heavily, closed her eyes and, in the peace and comfort of the warm room, sleep quickly overtook her.
In the kitchen, Joan had listened to her race up the stairs and bang her bedroom door closed forcefully. She looked sheepishly over at her nephew and he met her glance with a quizzical expression.
"Well, thanks Auntie Joan, that was fun." He said, finishing his tea and rising to his feet. "Any more happy surprises for me, or is it safe to go to bed?"
"Yes, Marty, go to bed. It's been a hell of a day. Too tired to explain now, it'll have to wait til morning. Your usual room. Need a hand with your luggage?"
"No, thank you." He gathered up his bags and took a couple of steps toward the door before pausing, and asking in a cold voice: "What's her mother done this time?"
Joan turned back toward him. She was genuinely amazed at his memory. It must have been ten years ago.
"Her mother's long gone." She said, her voice edged with bitterness. "This time it's her bloody father that's let her down. She had nowhere to go."
"Hmm." Martin replied, and he stood there for another few seconds in silence before striding out of the room and disappearing effortlessly up the stairs.
Joan watched her nephew leave, sitting for a moment with a crestfallen expression on her face. Eventually, she took a deep breath, stood up ponderously, and shuffled over to the stove, loading the firebox up in the vain hope that there'd be hot water enough in the morning. Giving in, finally, to exhaustion, she made her way through the rooms, switching off the lights, before making her own weary way up the stairs.
In his room, Martin changed into his bedtime uniform of a blue t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He stood for a moment, taking in the room, surprised that it did not appear to have changed at all in the many years since last he'd visited.
This space had been a sanctuary for him, within a home where he'd always felt safe and loved. He remembered the comfort he'd felt in Auntie Joan's arms when he'd awoken in terror from one of his awful nightmares; how she'd never reprimanded him when he wet the bed for the umpteenth time, merely changed the bedding, grateful for the rubber mattress protector, kissing him on his furrowed forehead, and telling him not to worry.
Martin slipped under the bedspread, and lay on his back, hands clasped on his chest, feeling enveloped by the softness and warmth, and slightly overwhelmed by memories that he'd spent years trying to strenuously suppress. The downstairs clock struck midnight. He'd packed the latest Lancet and the BMJ as some bedtime reading material but he knew that, after a six AM alarm and a very demanding day, sleep wasn't far away.
He closed his eyes and, immediately, the girl Louisa came to mind. He felt aggrieved that she'd somehow become his aunt's problem now; after Joan and Phil had worked so hard, struggled financially, and then she'd had to nurse him through what Martin knew was an appalling disease and a dreadful death. And, now, poor Auntie Joan was to be burdened with a waif and stray; no doubt an ungrateful, ignorant teenage girl who would cause her no end of grief and upset. It was infuriating.
Try as he might to lull his brain to sleep though, some distant memories forced their way to the front of his mind and, suddenly, Martin was awake again. He'd only been a boy himself but he so clearly recalled Wheezer, the trusting little girl that had clung to his hand as he'd tried to return her to the safety of her home. He blanched as he remembered her state of casual neglect, and the dreadful, drunken mother she'd clearly not been that enthusiastic to see. But his most haunting recollection of all was of the small, dishevelled child who, even though it seemed no one gave a toss about her well-being, had wiped a tear sympathetically from his frustrated and dejected face, and implored him so sweetly not to cry.
It pained him now to hear that his Aunt's fears for the little girl had been justified and, as he finally drifted off to sleep, he wondered just what damage had been done.