It had been a busy afternoon but Martin had the familiar contented feeling of time judiciously spent. It had always been his habit to keep busy but, as he grew older and life became more complicated and demanding, it now seemed imperative that the hours when he wasn't working were kept even more crowded than ever before. There was always plenty to catch up on on one of his rare days off. Today was his birthday but, as in every other year, he had kept that fact closely guarded and spent the day like any other Friday.
He'd recently used his inheritance to upgrade to a larger flat, the search for which had been undertaken with his usual precision and planning, so he was now within easy walking distance of the fishmongers, the greengrocers and the dry cleaners, all of which he had visited that afternoon. Laden with parcels and carry bags, he had marched home at a brisk pace, collected the post from the concierge, and jogged up the stairs, taking a moment to measure his heart rate after depositing his substantial cargo on the kitchen worktop. Satisfied that his fitness was being maintained, he put the groceries away and placed his suits and shirts away neatly in the large walk-in wardrobe that the master suite of his new and spacious flat boasted.
With the flat being larger, and his financial situation being significantly improved, Martin had sought the luxury of a housekeeper to come in and take care of the cleaning and laundry duties for him. After a trial period, Anita Holm had met his exacting standards and he had employed her to come in on a Thursday. Arriving home after she had been in, invariably late at night and exhausted, it was balm to his soul to walk through the immaculate and perfectly organised surroundings, and relax.
It was only after he had made himself an espresso, and peeled himself an apple, that he sat down on the enormous chesterfield in his living room and examined the collection of envelopes that had been delivered that morning. His attention was immediately caught by a hand written name and address in a firm, bold hand. He knew immediately who it was from and what it was. Of course, It could only be a birthday card from his Auntie Joan and he slid his opener across the top in a single, effective flourish. He gazed at the card with some pleasure; the image on the front was a reproduction of an interesting old painting. Very naive but somehow appealing, it showed a boat at sea, with a lighthouse in the background. Martin turned the card over and read the back with interest:
'Cornish Cutter.' Alfred Wallis. (1885-1942)
He made a mental note of the artist's name so that he could do some further research; and, with an appreciative nod, gave credit to his aunt for unearthing something new and interesting to him. After looking at it for a few moments longer, he remembered that he should look at the inside as well; noting she had written a few lines of customary greeting, wishing him a happy birthday of course, and informing him that she would telephone him shortly as she wished to speak to him in person. Martin read her words impassively; he considered the celebration of birthdays to be childish and unnecessary, and generally a self-indulgent waste of time. However, he did love his aunt and he was prepared to appease her desire for a birthday conversation with him, especially as he generally only had to hold up his end of the bargain by listening to her.
Joan would fill him in on the village gossip and, once that extensive subject had been exhausted, she would ask him about his life. Yes, he was working hard. Yes, he was still enjoying it. No, he hadn't been anywhere or done anything because he was always working. Which was all true, his work was everything; as a house surgeon he'd barely managed four days off a month, often averaging over one hundred hours a week. Fatigue had been his constant companion and he'd learned to power nap on a gurney, showering and changing clothes several times a day to stave off his body's overpowering desire to sleep. He'd found it difficult to maintain healthy eating habits, snatching meals whenever he could, and disciplining himself to shop for food and to prepare meals in advance on his rare days off, even when all he wanted to do was to crawl into bed and sleep.
He had known how it would be, and there was a part of him that thrived on the adversity, wondering how far he could push himself, fascinated with how he could continue to function, how he could make good decisions even when almost rendered delirious by sleep deprivation and stress. So he'd kept demanding more of himself, knowing that he was being purposely tested, and realising that to become a good doctor, the best way to achieve that was to focus entirely on medicine, to spend every available minute seeing the things that needed to be seen, and doing everything that needed to be done, until it became second nature.
Now in his first year training for his speciality, he was dedicated to the point of obsession, volunteering for extra shifts, anything really that would gain him more theatre time. He'd studied exhaustively, memorised manically, and tied more knots than a jamboree of Boy Scouts. Medicine demanded everything from him but he gave it all willingly. He was already a good surgeon but he intended to be a great one. He knew that he had the unique combination of cognitive ability and manual dexterity that would enable him to make a name for himself in the competitive realm of vascular, and his so,e focus was to see how far he could take his passion and skill, to the exclusion of everything else.
Once he had flown through his MRCS exams, and moved into his specialisation training, he had more free time but he had no other thought than to spend it on medicine. He spent any free weekday hours at the Hunterian and Wellcome collections at the Royal College of Surgeons buildings, so much so that the receptionists now recognised him and waved him through without any requirement that he should show his hospital ID. Of course, Martin was generally oblivious, but his name and reputation had started to precede him throughout the hospitals and medical institutions of London. Even if he had been aware, as he had always done he would have ignored it all as white noise. Exhaustion, isolation, physical deprivation; he would ignore all of that too because he had discovered the only thing that he was really any good at and the only thing that he really loved. Single-minded, driven and resolute, he wouldn't have it any other way.
As he had opened the card, a neatly folded letter had fallen into his lap, sealed with a glittery butterfly sticker so that it could not be opened by anyone, Martin presumed, other than himself. He scowled in surprise before picking it up cautiously, carefully separating the edges, and shaking it open with an impatient flick of his wrist.
Dear Martin,
I'm writing to you because I asked Mrs. Norton to pass on my news but she suggested that I should tell you myself instead, so here I am, letting you know that I am now a girl with three A levels! I'm currently waiting to hear if I've been accepted into the courses I've applied for but I'm very hopeful!
I was worried that you might not know who I was when you opened this but Mrs N. assured me that you would remember me. Do you also remember all those years ago, how you worried that I might not be able to concentrate well enough? You were probably right, there were a lot of distractions, but I wanted you to know that I did listen to your advice and I wanted to thank you for that time you took me to my new home and you left me all of those Baroque cassette tapes. Do you remember? Because I listened to all of them.
The fact that I am sitting here now, with options, is due to quite a few people stepping up to look after me and so I wanted to let you know that I got two A's and a B. Maths never was my strong suit but a B is a B! So I suppose what I also wanted to do was to say thank you for helping me. I didn't get a chance to say that the last time I saw you but I think it's very important, don't you? So, thanks again Martin. Even though I probably was a giant pain in the you-know-what, a lot of people went out of their way to help me and one of them was you. I have to admit that Baroque music was initially a bit of a challenge for me but now I'd almost call myself a fan. (But probably best if we keep that between the two of us, hahaha!)
You know I've always loved music but I think, if Albinoni was releasing an album right now, Adagio in G Minor wouldn't be a good choice for the first single. Concerto Number 2, while also in G Minor, would be a better choice in my opinion. It's definitely friendlier and more accessible, I suppose you could call it poppy, even if it isn't quite as moving as the Adagio. Oboe Concerto number 2 is probably my favourite, if I have one. It's so orderly and predictable but in a good way. A good first song for Side Two if you know what I mean.
Vivaldi is a bit passé almost now, wouldn't you say? I seem to hear him on advertisements, mainly the Four Seasons, and I want to tell my friends: oh god, not Primavera, again! But, if I do, they won't have a clue what I'm talking about so I'm telling you instead.
Boccherini, hate to say it but he's a bit of a one hit wonder. Probably too busy for me, from a studying point of view but I'm sure he's lovely in an antique shop, just not quite my cup of tea.
I think JS Bach's Air on a G string would have to be my favourite. It had got me through quite a few difficult hours. It's almost like Ultravox's Vienna the way it touches my soul. I always want to close my eyes and listen when it comes on. Pachelbel's Canon in D Major would have to come a close second. It's very uplifting and always makes me feel positive. I hope that's not disloyal to all the English composers, it's just the way I feel.
So that's about it from me. Mrs N tells me that you are still studying too. I hope you aren't getting sick of it yet. You must really be dedicated.
Sincerely yours,
Louisa Glasson
PS. I also needed to thank you for the account at the chemist. I used it at the start and a little bit since then but I tried not to be extravagant so hopefully I haven't spent too much. The new pharmacist has just taken over so it might be a good time to close the tab and let me know the final total. She's just got married though so she might be a bit distracted.
PPS. It's a few years off yet but once I do get a job, I would like to pay you back. Thanks again for that. It certainly made life much easier.
Martin rested his hand on his lap, unable to help a wry grimace at her note. She might be a few years older but she still exuded her adolescent joy for life. He could hear her voice as he read it; her accent curling around his name, her exhilarated speech pattern; gushing and breathless one minute, hesitating and awkward the next. Nevertheless, he was relieved to observe that the she now signed her name with a diacritic dot over the 'i' and not the tiny heart he remembered. What was more ridiculous, he thought suddenly, with a flush of embarrassment. The fact that she used a heart for the tittle in her name, or the fact that he remembered that she had done so? Quickly, he folded the letter, slid it back into the card and placed it on his desk.
Later, when he was contemplating the damaged springs of the overwound clock he was working on, Louisa's words came back to him. The fact that she had not only listened to his advice, but had been grateful, even actually thanking him after all this time, made him feel somehow disconcerted. He thought about it for a moment and realised that feeling ones efforts, however slight, were appreciated actually felt quite pleasing; a reward in itself was the expression he'd heard used. Briefly, he wondered what she'd decided to study and which colleges she had applied for. With her love of a good argument, perhaps she had chosen to read law. However, recalling her emotional outbursts, perhaps not. A career on the stage might be more appropriate, or perhaps journalism because, goodness knows, grammatical accuracy was no longer a pre-requisite for success in that profession, he thought disapprovingly. The musical assessment contained within her note, while flippant, was succinct and would be considered, by some, even vaguely entertaining. All things considered, he couldn't argue with her critique either. His thoughts continued to trail along, idly, on a similar theme until the discovery of a tiny, sheared-off screw in his clock frustrated his efforts and drove Louisa, and her potential careers, from his busy and preoccupied mind.