As soon as Louisa had walked into the kitchen, and she and Joan had made eye contact, they had both dissolved into such an uncontrollable fit of the giggles that Joan feared that they would be observed or overheard. With her arm around the teenager's violently shaking shoulders, she bundled her through the back door and out into the sunshine, where they both gave way, helplessly, to unbridled mirth.
It was only the sight of her nephew's reproachful stare as he discovered them and stood, arms folded and glowering at them disapprovingly, in the doorway that forced her to pull herself together. She took a handkerchief from the sagging pocket of her shapeless cardigan, and dabbed at the tears that had rolled down her cheeks.
"Oh Marty. I'm sorry." She sniffed, unable to look at Louisa for fear of erupting again.
"C...C..Colonel Spencer!" Louisa wheezed hysterically, and that was enough to start them both off again. Louisa grabbed the downpipe for support as her body was wracked by paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter. After a while, the hilarity receded, and she swung around on the pipe, childishly, and looked at him, her face split in half by her broad grin. Martin's expression was grim and, suddenly feeling apologetic, she flashed him a rueful smile.
"Sorry, Martin." She said guiltily, struggling to compose herself. "It's...just...well...ummm, never mind."
Joan stood up straight and sucked in a couple of noisy deep breaths.
"Right." She said, decisively, stuffing her hanky into her sleeve. "Time for supper."
Martin did not move.
"Colonel Whom?" He said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Joan looked at him, somewhat abashed.
"Ah, yes. Umm, Lieutenant-Colonel Gilbert Spencer, Retired." She replied furtively. "Every sentence ends with 'What?' Elephant gun cocked over his arm. Single-handedly keeping the Scottish Weaving Industry afloat. You know the type."
She looked at her nephew warily, and he stepped out of the doorway to let her pass. Before he turned to follow her inside, Martin glanced briefly over at Louisa and their eyes met. In an instant, he had looked away again but Louisa was sure about what she'd seen. Without a doubt, there was just the faintest hint of a smile twitching underneath his stony visage. She felt warmed, and oddly triumphant.
Inside, after taking a moment to weigh up her options, Edith had decided upon her agenda. Firstly, she needed to remove both boots and attempt to clamber down the staircase, unassisted. Secondly, she had not eaten all day, and she needed sustenance. Perhaps she could persuade Ellingham to take her somewhere for dinner, which would be ideal; she could work on him without the frumpy old aunt hovering in the background, calling him 'Marty' of all things as if he were some halfwit yokel child. She paused for a second as the uncomfortable memory of his glacial stare came back to her. Of course, if things seemed hopeless with Ellingham, then she would retire early, her dignity in tact. But, before she could implement any part of her plan, as far as ingratiating herself again with Ellingham, there was an obnoxious little pop tart that needed putting in her place.
Despite removing her boots, Edith still found the descent disconcerting and she began to wonder whatever had possessed her when she thought her trousers might be stylish country attire. She resolved to return them to the boutique, hoping they didn't notice the puncture wounds. The fabric was wool, so if she stretched it and fiddled with it, the holes might not be so obvious. That would fix the frilly-shirt clad, obsequious shop girl who'd clearly lied to her face as she gushed at how amazing Edith looked when she'd tried them on. In practical terms, they were a cross between a kilt and a shroud, and impossible to move about in, especially when each trouser leg weighed more than she did, and each step she took felt like she was being slapped in the calves by a damp sack. Edith felt that she'd been made a fool of, and someone must pay.
As she walked with some difficulty into the kitchen, meal creation seemed to be well underway, so her thought of absconding for the evening, somewhere more private and intimate, faded disappointingly. His cantankerous aunt was piling vegetables on to the table, and Ellingham was carefully laying out a chopping board and a selection of knives, no doubt about to prepare some dreary, unfortunate fish with his usual precision. She noticed them both hesitate as she entered, but they carried on, slightly self consciously, as she made her way across the room and sat down at the table. She looked around her, and took in the clutter and the general state of disrepair. Every shelf was laden with what she could only describe as a load of old tat, and the artworks on the wall looked for all the world like framed jigsaw box lids. Edith couldn't imagine when the ceiling had last seen a coat of paint. That Ellingham, a self-acknowledged perfectionist and borderline Mysophobe, could feel any sense of comfort or ease in this house was a complete mystery to her.
"So, Dr. Montgomery." Joan said, crisply, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? Did you just happen to be passing?"
"Oh, please, call me Edith." She replied, and the self satisfied smirk returned to her face.
She had spent some of her journey, as the wearisome landscape flashed past the train windows, preparing an answer for this very question. Coquettishly, she placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her upturned palm. She willed Ellingham to look at her so that she could signify with her glance what her true motives were, but he remained steadfastly attentive to his task and, even more frustratingly, oblivious to her presence.
Before she could deliver her polished and well rehearsed reply, there was a crashing sound; the back door burst open and Louisa backed in awkwardly, a bucket in each hand. With some difficulty, she manoeuvred herself around one hundred and eighty degrees, pushed the door closed with her bum and stood, expectantly, smiling at Joan.
"Got the eggs." She said cheerfully. "There's lots. And that angry ginger one pecked me when I was feeling underneath her."
Joan beamed at her.
"Thank you Louisa, saved me a job." She said approvingly.
Martin looked up from his fish.
"Did it break the skin?" He enquired.
"Umm, no, not really." Louisa replied. "Where shall I put them?"
"Let me see." He said, and placed his knife carefully on the plate.
"Just leave them there for now. I'll sort them when I've finished." Joan replied jovially and began filling a large saucepan with water.
Louisa sat the buckets on the table, studiously ignoring Edith, who had suddenly lost her flirtatious air and now sat with her arms folded in annoyance, fixing the girl with an icy, irritated stare; livid at both her constant interruptions and the fact that she always seemed to be the centre of attention.
"There's not even really a mark, Martin. It's nothing, honestly." Louisa said lightly, but he frowned at her so she held out her hand, reluctantly.
"Mmm" he said, clasping her wrist and scowling at her knuckles. "Give it a good wash in soap and water."
"Really, Marty." Joan replied, somewhat scornfully. "I have been pecked dozens of times. Never an issue."
He looked back at her, indicating that his opinion might differ on that point by a knowing arch of his eyebrow, but said nothing. Joan snorted at him, and began attacking the potatoes, vigorously, with her ancient peeler. Edith watched on, wondering how she could turn the conversation back to herself; with the amount of regard she was being shown, it was almost as if she weren't there. She opened her mouth to speak but, once again, she was interrupted by the girl, who suddenly did a theatrical twirl.
"Anyway," Louisa said playfully. "Mrs Norton! Notice anything familiar?"
She threw out her arms and tossed her head, grinning broadly at Joan, who looked back at her, thoughtfully, before a twinkle came into her eyes and her upside down smile lit up her face.
"Louisa! That isn't...Oh my lord, I'd completely forgotten! Looks wonderful on you!"
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and gazed at her young charge, admiringly.
"Look, Marty." Joan gushed. "Ancient history. I bought it in London before I came down here to get married."
Louisa glanced down, running her hands gently across her waist her to smooth the sides, and pausing to touch the intricate beading at the hem.
Martin glanced up at her. "Mmmm, yes." He replied, and went back to the task at hand.
It was only a fleeting look, however it was too much for Edith who not only needed to be the centre of attention but who was also used to always having Ellingham to herself. She watched as he stood up and took the perfectly filleted fish across to the oven, transferred it to a baking tray and began to baste it liberally with some unidentified liquid. He then washed his hands fastidiously, and dried them, still avoiding any eye contact with her.
"It's just so beautiful!" Louisa gushed, enthusiastically. "I was really excited when I put it on and it finally fitted me."
"Oh, it fits you alright, my girl." Joan thought, contemplatively. "Not going to be too long before you are breaking hearts all over the county."
Martin held out the tea towel.
"Louisa. Wash your hands." He said in a tone that defied refusal.
She looked at him speculatively and was about to remark, somewhat caustically, about the rather fetching apron he was wearing but, wisely, Louisa decided to do as she was asked. She stood at the sink and Martin stood at her shoulder, supervising.
"In between the fingers. Yes, like that." He instructed. "For at least thirty seconds. More soap. Yes. Good."
When she had completed the washing to Martin's standards, he handed her the tea towel.
"Now, dry them. Thoroughly. And, umm, put that towel in to be washed."
Louisa pulled a face at him but he ignored her; merely returning her look with a steely and authoritative gaze of his own. From the end of the table, Edith watched their interaction and she began to feel sickened, and more than a little desperate. It was bad enough that Ellingham was ignoring her, but how dare he give his attention instead to this unsophisticated peasant with her incomprehensible accent and her disrespectful attitude. Earlier, in her worn out corduroys and faded tee shirt, it had been easy for Edith to dismiss her as an irritating, insufferable child but, somehow, as the girl was twirling around the kitchen, and seemingly conversing so easily with Ellingham as if they shared some sort of camaraderie, she felt ostracised by this little, country bumpkin clique of three.
"Shall I finish peeling these?" Louisa asked helpfully, wandering over to to the table.
"Thank you, Louisa." Joan replied, pausing to look pointedly at Edith who sat oblivious, examining her fingernails, her expression now dark and petulant.
"Here, ummm...use this." Martin added, clearing his throat and hesitating before removing his apron, folding it loosely and placing it on the table next to the not insignificant pile of potatoes.
Louisa gave him a quick, appreciative smile and Edith could contain herself no longer.
"Ellingham!" She barked. "A word!?"
Martin winced, and turned toward her reluctantly, avoiding her malignant stare. He knew that trying to ignore her was futile and only delaying the inevitable explosion of vitriol but he couldn't bring himself to respond to her.
"In private." She growled, attempting in vain to stand up before realising that the leg of the chair was pinning her trouser leg down. Cursing under her breath, she rocked the chair onto two legs and leaned over to free herself.
"Is that a car?" She heard the girl say with her irritating backwater pronunciation.
Edith tugged angrily at her trouser leg but her efforts were futile. Martin stood impassively, and watched her struggle, trying to understand why he felt nothing. As soon as Louisa spoke, he saw his opportunity to escape.
"I'll go." He offered and bolted from the room.
Louisa was in fact correct, they did have a visitor; as Martin raced up the path, he noticed immediately that the bulky backside of P.C Lester Tregurtha was protruding from open passenger side door of his Police Land Rover.
Martin recognised him by his sheer size but could not, for the life of him, recall his name. He coughed as he came up behind him and the policeman swung around, a gentle smile on his broad, ruddy face.
"Aah, young Dr. Ellingham. Just the gentleman I wanted to see."
Martin raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "Aaah, Constable..."
He was saved any embarrassment over his nominal aphasia by Lester holding out his huge hand, in which he held a large, thick, brown paper bag.
"That matter we discussed earlier." The policeman intoned pleasantly. "I made a few calls and it was easily sorted. Hopefully the offending article can be returned to Louisa before it causes too much more anxiety for the young lady."
Martin gestured back toward the house and looked at him questioningly.
"Ummm, Louisa is...she's just...inside...in the kitchen. Would you...aaah, would you care to...you can return it...if you like?"
Lester smiled at him again. Despite his gruff exterior, there was something likeable and decent about this young man.
"Thank you, but I think it's been a long day for everyone, and I don't wish to intrude. Just between you and me, I am rather looking forward to getting these boots off and enjoying a quiet pint. I am sure you can return it to her for me." He said, affably.
"Oh, and something else..." he added, turning back to the vehicle. "Can you please give your Auntie Joan her plate back? And thank her for the doggy bag, so to speak. Made the drive to Truro even more enjoyable. Very kind. Very kind indeed."
Martin thanked him quietly and they shook hands; the younger man watching thoughtfully as Lester ambled around to the driver's side and climbed in. He hoped that the Cornwall and Devon Police conducted regular health and fitness monitoring on their frontline staff because, in his estimation, the policeman was a ticking time bomb for Type 2 diabetes, Atherosclerosis and coronary heart disease. Standing in the driveway, like a monument to to judgemental disapproval, he watched the Land Rover rumble off past the bramble hedge and out into the lane.
As he turned back to the house, he heard her familiar, curt, demanding cry.
"Ellingham! What on earth are you doing?"
He looked back at the cottage, and saw Edith standing, hands on hips, in the doorway, and his face creased into an angry frown. Looking down at the paper bag, he cursed her angrily. Suspecting that she had no shoes on, and hoping that she would stay on the porch rather than march across the sharp stones to confront him, he made a quick decision. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he felt for his car keys, and quickly made his way over to his car. He opened the passenger door and went to slip the paper bag into the glove compartment. With a growl of frustration, he realised that it was too bulky and would not fit, even when he pulled the vehicle documentation and paraphernalia out of the way, and dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor.
"Ellingham!" He heard her call out again.
He swore, and tried again but to no avail.
"Stop being such an infernal arse! What ARE you doing?"
She was shouting now and, in his panic, he fumbled the bag and dropped it onto the driveway. Under no circumstances could he allow Edith to know what he was doing. He grabbed at it, wondering if he could hide the bag and its contents under the seat but there simply wasn't enough space either. As he wrenched at it, the seat mechanism tore the skin from a knuckle and he swore again. There was nothing else for it. He tore at the tightly wound, string bag seal that held it closed, slipped his hand inside and pulled the diary out.
He looked down at the battered, black, faux leather cover. In white, she had written her name across the top, a little heart where the dot on the 'i' should be. Underneath, there was a printed quote, cut neatly from a magazine, and affixed by way of a thick layer of clear sellotape. Unable to help himself, he found himself reading the words. He felt a wave of embarrassment; that he was somehow intruding on something intensely private, and so important to Louisa that she had so carefully saved them in such a prominent position.
* Don't give in to things you know aren't right.
* Make smart decisions that honour your heart, your future and your sense of self.
Underneath, in the same girlish hand, she had written:
'Emotions are real but they're not the truth.'
Martin stared at it for a brief moment before reading the words again. Then he slipped the journal into the glovebox, and locked it carefully, before picking up the empty plate from the footwell of the car and locking the door. Taking a very deep breath, and holding it for a moment, he exhaled loudly and turned back toward the house. It was time to face the music. It was time to honour his heart, his future and, most importantly, his sense of self.