(Thanks to everyone who left such encouraging reviews after the last chapter. I was so happy to read that Wheezer was still worth carrying on with and that people still cared, plus it's always lovely to hear the opinions of those who haven't left reviews before. I'm always so happy when I see an unfamiliar name. That said, I also want to thank the readers who regularly share their thoughts with me. I do really appreciate your opinions and your commitment to my story. I wish I could tell which Guest was which though, since so many of you have such valuable things to say. And, lastly, congratulations and a very Happy Birthday to Anuchka; ninety six is really something to celebrate xx
Let me know, please, what you think of Louisa's perspective…)
For a while, all I can hear is my heart, pounding in my ears, my body jarred by every furious beat. I can't seem to slow it down either, even holding my breath won't stop it racing like a train. The pillow squeaks, the duvet rustles, and I swing horribly between indignation and despair, listening for his car, desperate to know where he is and what he's doing, telling myself it's because I need to be absolutely sure that he's gone. But tiny, incidental noises are disruptive; I toss and turn, and then I lie motionless, straining my ears for some sound of him. The slam of a door, spinning wheels spraying gravel, the scream of a gearbox thrown angrily into a high-speed reverse. But, outside, the dawn reveals little but the emptiness of the countryside in winter, just a distant song thrush, and the despairing sigh of the wind as it sweeps around the eaves.
Flexing my knee gingerly, I feel like an idiot too, coming up the stairs in such a state that I'd even forgotten about the wobbly bannister. Missing the top step and losing my balance, I was lucky not to be catapulted face forward onto the landing; as usual running blindly, like a bolting pony across the moor. Now, with a throbbing shin for my trouble, I console myself that at least Martin didn't witness that particular embarrassing loss of dignity. God, on top of everything else, it would have been more shame than I think that I could possibly bear. And the fuss he would have made too, the unnecessary examination he would have insisted on! With a furious scowl on his face, no doubt, one that must terrify his actual patients. And such a contradiction now I think about it, his expression such a contrast to the lightness and spare efficiency of his touch. Funny, isn't it, how even on the coldest day, Martin's hands are always warm. But not funny at all is how my chest is suddenly constricted, the way being alone doesn't feel like such a triumph any more.
Rolling on my side, I sigh, grimly determined to be staunch, lecturing myself, flexing my jaw as our confrontation plays over and over again inside my head. Honestly, what was he thinking, virtually breaking into the house, and frightening the wits out of me, especially after everything that's happened over the last few days? What did he expect, really, turning up like that, in the middle of the night, without a bit of warning? That we'd sit down and have lovely catch-up over a nice hot cup of tea? I mean, how dare he come down here, all superior and condescending, like he's doing me a bloody enormous favour, swanning in like I can't survive without him, like he thinks I need him to step in when things go wrong. Biting my lip furiously, I try to recall his expression, that usual hint of disdain, the arrogance of a man who considers he's smarter than everyone else. But it's funny, I can't quite bring the moment into focus and his demeanour, frustratingly, just doesn't seem to fit. Why would his eyes have been that wide, his expression so hesitant and child-like? I must be mistaken, I'm obviously exhausted, and confusing time and place.
Anyway, it doesn't change anything, does it? Whatever he looked like, the important thing is that he's forgotten that I'm a lot tougher than most people give me credit for. I mean, I descend from a long line of indomitable Cornish women, and they all faced a damned sight worse than I've had to. You know, it's actually a good time to remind myself about all the adversity they must have suffered, certainly far worse setbacks than, to quote Martin bloody Ellingham, a dad who's just a common or garden thief. My breath comes in rapid, rasping gasps as I lie there, remembering the stories I'd heard, of maternal ancestors old before their time, crushed by the heartbreak of burying their children. Of being the only ones left behind in the aftermath of a mining disaster or another bloody shipwreck, with no choice but to find a way to desperately carry on. So Martin couldn't be more wrong actually, believing that I can't take care of myself, because they are in me, those women, and their determination in the face of hardship is cemented in my genes.
I wrench the covers up under my chin, feeling more aggrieved than ever. After everything that happened with the lifeboat money, I really didn't want anyone to know I was here, but especially not Martin. For God's sake, it's like he's got some sort of sixth sense for all my most humiliating moments, turning up just in time to always see me at my worst. He must have been dying to point out how right he'd been, that a leopard can't change his spots. My dad's a recidivist criminal, without scruples, just liked Martin warned me, so he for one won't be surprised I got burned. And what makes it so doubly unbearable is that, I know he's only here now to do his duty, motivated as usual by some unspoken promise to his aunt. I can see Joan, down at the mouth and disappointed, filling him on the depths my dad has sunk to, feeling sorry for me as she regales him with yet another chapter of the shameful Glasson chronicles. And I can picture Martin in his study, too, glacial and emotionless as he listens to her, detached as he pencils Cornwall into his diary, irritated at the interruption perhaps, maybe even resentful, but always pragmatic, always the problem solver, focused solely on whatever can return him quickest to his beloved Lancet.
That's what I've become to both of them, probably, just a frustrating inconvenience. My teeth dig into my lip as my eyes start to smart. I know I'm ridiculous, my emotions are just getting the better of me because I've been sleeping so badly. That's all it is, like when I first got to the village, when I had a few of those weak and feeble moments, the ones where everything just got a little bit overwhelming. Of course that was before my dad did his horrible thing, weeks ago, back when I still had hope Martin might be actually sorry, that it wouldn't be long and he would come and find me. But nothing until, typically, he turns up now, when everything feels like such a disaster, before I've been able to think of a solution, before I've come up with a plan. I swallow hard, gulping down cold air that sits like a heavy lump in my chest. At least I can console myself that I didn't back down; as he drives back to London with a flea in his ear, he'll remember my composure, he'll know that I'm totally fine. If he supposed I was a victim, now he knows without question that I'm absolutely not. Of course, I might not have looked like a survivor, stood there dressed in one of his old tee-shirts, my teeth chattering, goosebumps rippling my skin. But I can only hope he didn't actually notice what I'd borrowed from his wardrobe, that too much else was going on in that brain of his that he would even care at all.
I yawn again, feeling utterly drained. My eyes begin to water, but I'm adamant: they're not real tears. I'm just exhausted, aren't I, from trying to rationalise my situation, from worrying about my finances, figuring out how to pay for all of this, my thoughts on a constant tangled loop inside my head. I'm too weary even to reach for my glass of water, instead I just lie there and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping I can somehow stop them stinging. That my dad would steal money from the lifeboat is just so awful that I'm still struggling to believe it, appalled that even he that could stoop so low. Even Joan had been tongue-tied, skirting around the subject, trying to spare my feelings I suppose, and perhaps I wasn't ready to hear her confirm it absolutely, to face the brutal shame that's been festering inside me like a boil. But Martin has just attested to it, hasn't he, with his usual brutal honesty; my dad caught red-handed, and his guilt is undeniable, because Joan would never make an accusation like that if she did not know for certain that it was true.
My mind swims and for the thousandth time I wonder if I could have done anything differently, something that might have prevented this disgrace being linked to our family name eternally. I shudder as I hear the mob again, assembled in the tiny path outside dad's poky little cottage. Angry faces, drunken fisherman, furious farmers, all shouting horrible accusations against my father while I stood shaking and bewildered in the narrow hallway, not realising what the bloody hell he'd gone and done. God knows why I went out to the porch in a hopeless attempt to disperse them. I must have been deluded; thank god their insults and threats drowned out my misguided, self righteous speech in dad's defence. My head starts to ache and it's almost too much to cope with, the ignominy, and the loss; all I can do is to try desperately hard not to weep from the shame of it, gasping like a dying mullet, clutching the spare pillow tightly over my head.
Eventually though, with the room so still and quiet, I'm drawn down into the softness of the mattress, my thoughts fleeting and disjointed, my body bone weary as I start to drift away. I seep into darkness, swathed in nothingness, suspended in a place of predictable, enveloping calm. But soon enough, the men are back, still brutal in their insults, determining that I, too, am guilty of the most disgraceful crimes simply by association. Lights flicker, colour fades and the crowd moves like kelp in the ocean swell. I don't understand why they've followed me back to London, and I can only stand on the enormous balcony as if I am staring down at them from Buckingham Palace, watching as they surge toward me across St James' Park. All that stands out is a face in the crowd: it's my dad and even he is jeering at me, cruelly and callously, like somehow this is all my fault. I hear them at the the door, and I fight to get back inside, but the floorboards seem to be missing, my path to safety strewn with gaping holes. I freeze, terrified, capable of moving neither forward nor back. And then a voice sounds, my name as a low and hesitant murmur, and I reach for his arm as he encourages me toward him. Such relief as he pulls me to safety, I have made it to his office; he gestures at an old cast iron hospital bed, suggesting that I must lie down and rest.
"Louisa?" He repeats, and it feels like I'm floating; wherever I am, I'm desperate to stay, to cling to this delicious feeling of security, soothed by a voice that sounds like pouring treacle over hot steam pudding.
"Louisa, It's Martin, umm…are you awake?"
Everything shifts. My eyelids are impossibly heavy and suddenly it's cold again, I'm in Joan's spare bedroom at the farmhouse and, as reality dawns, I remember why I'm here. I manage to open one eye a little, but I just can't seem to form any sort of sentence, I'm dazed, disoriented; frustrated to be woken up when sleep has been so elusive for so many nights. And I'm annoyed too when I realise that it's Martin on the other side of the door, rousing me against my will. But most of all, in a way that's utterly maddening and confounding, I'm just a tiny bit elated that he's back.
"What? Martin…why…Why are you still here?" I cry out, desperate suddenly not to give an inch. "I thought I told you to go?"
He pauses, as if he's seriously considering his answer. "Louisa. I am aware that you…ah…you don't want me here but, nevertheless, you…you need to…umm…I wondered when the last time it was you ate…"
"What? I'm sorry…what's that got to do with anything? What's it got to do with you?"
"Well, I was, umm…I have just driven for several hours to get here and…."
"I didn't ask you to…" I point out, more tartly than I intended, and I notice his voice change, becoming deeper, firmer as he seems to be growing in frustration.
"Yes, I realise that…but regardless, it seemed prudent to eat before undertaking the return journey. Consequently, there was extra which I thought better to offer to you than to waste. That's all."
I pause, my fingers tightening on the bedding, waiting for the inevitable lecture, a snide comment about my eating habits, the hours I keep, my unhealthy craving for sweets and pointless empty calories. But, weirdly, he says nothing chastising nor judgmental, and I wonder then if he's still on the other side of the bloody door at all. And, in a way that's stupidly upsetting, it dawns on me that, probably, what I do, or eat, or say really doesn't matter to him any more.
"Well…" I reply, as crisply as I can, horrified at just how close I am to giving in, and equally furious at the disloyalty of my stomach as it growls like one of Phil Pratt's sheepdogs. "Thanks anyway, Martin but I'm actually really tired…and a bit cold too…so, you know, I think I'll just stay here…"
"Right…yes…I see…" He replies, after what seems like forever, his voice trailing off to a mumble that I have to strain to hear at all.
I mean, is he disappointed? Does he even sound regretful? And why is it so frustrating that I can't tell what he's thinking, and why do I even care what he says or does at all? Honestly, I didn't ask him to come, I didn't ask him to make me breakfast, so I don't know why he's making such a fuss. I'm perfectly capable of making myself something when I feel like it. I mean, I did actually try last night, when I couldn't face another meal of chicken soup, but when I looked in the cupboards, I couldn't find any real food, just ingredients. God, I so hate the way he thinks I can't look after myself, I hate the implied criticism, for not partaking in three square meals a day.
"Martin! Stop muttering, will you? For god's sake!" I call out, as irritable as a toddler awoken from a nap, aggravated even further as he says something unintelligible in reply. "Just….you know, open the door or something so I can actually hear you!"
An eternity seems to pass before I hear the barest hint of a squeaky hinge, the faintest creak of a floorboard. Holding my breath, I daren't move, I daren't lift my head to look, but I can feel him in the room, an oddly arresting presence, even though he is still just out of sight. I feel a cold draught, and then the oddest feeling of nervousness, of butterflies in my stomach; an anticipation of something but of what I have absolutely no idea. I wait for him to say something, to venture further than the doorframe so that I can see his face, wanting to feel the full weight of his imperious disdain, so that I can use it to add steel to my resolve.
"I'm not muttering!" I hear him insist, with just a hint of indignation, before he seems to correct himself, his tone becoming low and silky again, and his diction once more crystal clear. "What I said was…what I suggested…was that I could simply leave the tray on the landing for you."
"What tray?"
I hear him inhale: "Your breakfast. I've bought it up…"
"Oh. Right." I reply, helplessly, and for some reason I feel myself blush.
"Mm. I thought perhaps that you could… umm…eat it here…in bed. If you wanted to…breakfast in bed, as it were."
As he speaks, the room becomes a hall of mirrors, a place of distorted perceptions where nothing makes any sense, especially Martin. I honestly can't believe what I've just heard and I roll onto my back, dumbfounded, as my lips repeat his words in silent disbelief.
"Okay." I reply tentatively but the truth is, I don't think I am.
It's like a card trick, some sort of sleight of hand, not only is he acting weird but I feel suddenly really bloody hurt. I mean how many times have I beseeched him to stay in bed with me, to have a lazy Sunday morning, doing normal couple things like you see in the movies; sharing croissants and drinking coffee, and reading bits out of the the papers to each other. It's one of those things that had always seemed to me to be the height of luxury, the epitome of self-indulgence, and I'd wanted us very desperately to be that sort of couple, especially since it was something that I'd never ever done before.
But Martin is nothing if not consistent, he'd always made it clear: eating in bed is anathema to him, a travesty, a filthy habit bordering on debauchery, one's bed linen contaminated, instantly rendered unusable from a plethora of irritating crumbs. Desperate, I'd even offered to be the one to get up and make it, only to be met by a tight-lipped, sidelong glance of disapproval, a dip of his chin and an expression of absolute disgust. My stomach rumbles again, and I can only hope that he can't hear it. I can smell the breakfast now, and I'm almost at the point of no return. I'm only punishing myself now if I stubbornly refuse to eat.
"So…where've you put this tray then?" I blurt out, pathetically attempting to sound airy and disinterested.
"It's here. I'm holding it…" He replies quietly, his voice now a little bit closer, softer perhaps, somehow kinder. "I can bring it in…umm, if you like…do you want to sit up first? I think perhaps you should.."
Leaning on my elbow, I glance up and the first thing I notice are his shirt cuffs; white and immaculate, almost fluorescent in the pale light, the perfect contrast to the pale grey pinstripe of his sleeve. And his hands, substantial and strong, so incongruous as he grips the delicate, scalloped handles of the silver tray. Smooth skin, spotless nails, gleaming enamel cufflinks, so undeniably Martin. I raise my head, and I'm greeted by that familiar stance; tall, broad shouldered, carrying himself with military bearing as he stands silhouetted against the light. Sod the cruel aligning of the planets that sees him wearing that perfectly cut suit, my particular favourite. Sod this sudden pang of regret that lurches in my stomach as he takes a step toward me. And sod the fact that he fills the room, infuriatingly charismatic and compelling, when the only urge I want to feel is for him to go away.
So I have to look away, forcing myself upwards, wriggling free of the heavy bedding until I am upright once again. The cold air is a little bit shocking against my skin, and I shiver and look around for something else to put on. I can't seem to think properly, though it's got nothing to do with him, standing there, fastidious and remote, the faintest crease between his eyebrows. His face is a picture of studied neutrality as he gazes calmly at the wall, even as I wrestle with the thin pillows, twisting around to plump them and jam them behind my back, his demeanour only changes to a sort of irritated boredom. I'd say it's pretty blimmin' obvious he's keen to get on his way now too, resting his chin on his tie knot and casting quick impatient looks in my direction.
I reach over and switch on the lamp, and the room is softly illuminated by the ancient, feeble bulb. And for Martin, it's enough of a signal, as he takes another halting step toward the bed, bending from the waist and laying the tray carefully on my lap. For a moment, his face is so close to mine that I can see him swallow, I can hear him, barely, lightly, clear his throat. Not a stray whisker to be seen, not a hair out of place, the whites of his eyes so clear and luminous; his subtle little sideways glance meeting a momentarily helpless, transfixed stare of my own. For a split second, we contemplate each other, steadily yet still so very awkwardly. So much has passed between us yet I'm distracted by the tiny details; the only way to be absolutely sure of Martin's eye colour is to look at him this intently, to stare directly at him, to be this very close. You could ask a lot of people and they'd all tell you the same, that he has blue eyes, or perhaps they might be grey, because they've never been near enough to know for sure. But I know, and for a fleeting moment I see that gentle, intensely private man that actually revealed such a lot of himself to me. But that is all lost to me now, even though, as he pulls away, standing up straight and adjusting his cuffs, I ache so badly for it to be that way again that I'm powerless to look away.
"I found some blueberries in the freezer." He mutters, self-conscious and a little bit gruff. "Goodness knows how long that they've been there for…honestly, it wouldn't kill Auntie Joan just to write the dates on things but does she? No…"
I hold up my hand, dizzied by a racing pulse, and distracted now by the contents of the tray; a bowl of porridge, drizzled with what appears to be honey, and finely chopped walnuts sprinkled evenly across the creamy surface of the oats. And a pot of tea, and a pile of sugar lumps laid out on a saucer, complete with little silver tweezers, with stylised claws for prongs, to pick them up. Goodness knows how or where he found all this; there's even a linen napkin, and the cutlery is so shiny; an actual matching set from the same canteen.
"Oh Martin, this will be fine. Honestly." I assure him, breathlessly, and for the first time in ages I really want to smile. I don't believe it, and I look across at him, trying to make sense of his complete change of heart. There's actual cream, in a tiny little jug, liquid honey in another. "Gosh….you've gone to a lot of trouble…"
"Ahh, not really." He replies. "It's just..umm…porridge."
"And a cup of tea." I add, almost teasingly. "With sugar…"
He inclines his head and, for a split second, his expression changes, as if he were resigning himself to some horrible fate. "Yes. Though I do advise that you strictly regulate your intake…for a female adult roughly an ounce is…"
"Yes, thank you Martin…" I interrupt, glancing at him with a speculative look that almost dares him to continue.
But the smell is heavenly and something of a smile lingers on my face; homemade porridge is so infinitely comforting, especially on an icy morning like today. My stomach rumbles so loudly that I grimace at him, a tiny bit embarrassed, spreading the napkin out across my chest, and tucking it into the neck of my shirt with one hand as I hold my hair out of the way with the other. I wait for him try and have the last word, as usual but he has moved away, turning his back on me and tugging at his ear. If he seems a bit sheepish suddenly, perhaps he's finally realised that I wanted more from him than endless medical lectures. That I didn't need a doctor, I didn't need a dietician, what I needed was a boyfriend who trusted me, a boyfriend who wanted to spend time with me, who wanted to take me out, and do normal couple things. So it just shows, doesn't it, that he and I are just too different to ever be together; we don't make each other happy, our last few weeks together vividly illustrated that. I'll admit I've realised I still have feelings for him but if Martin feels the same, he doesn't show it, so how on earth would anybody ever know? I suppose at least we're making an attempt now to behave like adults, it's important to stay civil because, in the break-ups you read about, to the agony aunts and in the gossip columns, being on speaking terms is not the easiest thing to do.
His back still turned, I attack my meal with gusto, pouring out more cream, knowing he's distracted by some ugly old clock that's disfiguring the wall. But, honestly, how tragic am I, stealing little surreptitious glances at him, before I know it, I'll be allowing myself to feel something, my thoughts tormenting and exposing a heart that I'm trying very hard to protect. But I can't help it, it's like trying not to rubberneck at an accident, I mean, I've always like the way he looked from behind. As if to provoke me, he pulls a book from the shelf, in that precise way of moving he has, laying it on the broad palm of his hand, elegant even in the way he flips through pages. In some ways, it feels so natural that he is here but, in other ways, that he's so lukewarm towards me now is a form of pain. And I don't like being the only one feeling any sort of tension, a miserably familiar longing, like I'm wrapped in a cloak that's made of lead. I'm not really even sure why he is still here, he's probably desperate to get away, the box next to my name now has a tick in it, and though I've never driven it myself, getting to London from here by car is certainly a hike. Perhaps I should ask him if he'll leave now, tell him he ought to go, anything to break this uncomfortable sort of deadlock, because this lack of air is making it so hard for me to think.
"Louisa."
His voice comes out of nowhere, startling me, causing a warm flush to flood across my torso, finally settling around my neck and chest.
"Umm…Yeah?" I reply, determined to keep him at arm's length, focusing intently on licking my spoon and placing it neatly in my rather empty bowl.
"I was wondering…if…I could help you in any way." He says, his voice low and controlled. "It's just that…well… I'm here now, and it seems rather pointless just to turn around and…well…drive home."
"Oh" I reply, sounding like an idiot. "Right."
I realise then, after a minute, that we're looking at each other again, each as wide-eyed and cautious as the other. Martin is like an uneasy statue, rigid and unmoving, his feet planted firmly in the middle of the room, I suppose because it's the only place he can actually stand up straight. It dawns on me too that there's a distinct possibility of history repeating itself. Clearing my dad's things from his flat has been eating away at me, going back into the village alone feels like a confrontation waiting to happen, one I'm not so sure I'm ready for. Pulling Joan into the fray felt like I was being a burden but perhaps Martin could come with me, there's not that much to sort, it wouldn't take that long. And I defy even Jimmy Millinger to come at me when I have six foot four of acerbic London surgeon, disgruntled and at my side. I smile at Martin, ruefully, taking a deep breath and sinking my teeth into my lip.
"I've got a couple of hours…" he adds hesitantly, his expression now almost imploring.
"Well…there is something…"
"Good. Yes. What?"
"It's seems a bit of a funny thing to ask after…well, you know…after the first time we met…"
He nods, and his mouth opens a little but he doesn't say anything. It's somehow oddly endearing and it certainly doesn't help my resolve one bit.
"Well," I tell him, flashing him a rueful sort of grimace. "I have to go to the village and get the rest of the things from my dad's flat…deja vu really…"
"Unfortunately for you, yes it is." He says crisply. "When would you like to go?"
"I also have to take the keys back to the landlord…"
"Fine." He says and he takes a step toward me.
For a moment I don't know what it is he's doing, holding my breath, but finding myself oddly disappointed as he bends over, intent only on retrieving my empty tray.
"How long do you need to get ready?" He asks, glancing at me as he turns away.
"Well…not long really because I was hoping to be a bit cheeky. Actually, the thing is, Martin, I really want to have a shower at the flat while I still can. Honestly, the water pressure here is rubbish, I don't know how Joan puts up with it, I have to stand in there for ages. And I can still barely rinse the conditioner out of my hair!"
For a minute he looks like I've horrified him, like borrowing a bit of hot water puts me in the same sort of league as my dad. Just as I'm about to defend myself, he lifts his chin, and says coolly: "I'll see to the dishes and then I will wait for you in the car…"
I watch him walk away, shoulders back, no evidence of any sort of swagger. Martin is simply enduring this any way he can, and taking him to Portwenn is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. I mean, honestly, I'm just delaying the inevitable, aren't I? Because I'm ridiculous, and can't face the fact that we've really reached the end. And though I can try and deny it, this is about more than just losing the one person I believed that really loved me, the one person I hoped would never let me down. This is him, taking all my stupid adolescent dreams away with him, and leaving me here in this tiny, unsophisticated village, where no doubt, he's sure that I belong. God, it all feels like such a mess, my stomach is in knots as I pull on my heavy winter tights. I mean, playing at reasonable adults is one thing but there's a big part of me that still wants to rage at him, and demand an explanation for all the horrible things he said. But how can you be angry at someone, and make them understand how much they've hurt you, but then still try and pretend that you don't care at all? Once he's gone, it's unthinkable that we will ever meet again in my lifetime; forget about civil, I will have to avoid him forever, like the plague. Because, if there's one thing I've learned by his unexpected arrival, I still love him far too much that we can ever be friends.