(With the writer's side of FF not working for ten days now, I have no idea if anyone is reading my story or not. Please, if you read this chapter, leave a comment or, even better, a review or it's going to be a very lonely few days for me. Thank you so much)
Only hours after our engagement, doubt began to manifest itself. Unquestionably, the nub of it all, the nexus if you will, was my Aunt and her blunt assertions. Somewhat naively, the success of my proposal had seen me tentatively optimistic but she had put paid to all that. Bristling with resentment, I felt it imperative that Louisa and I return to London as soon as possible. Fortunately, Louisa herself seemed oblivious to my unease. As vivacious as ever, and effusive in her thanks, she at least was a balm, a temporary distraction; twirling about the kitchen, smiling broadly one minute, tears welling in her eyes the next.
When finally the time came to leave, she and Joan had embraced while I stood at a distance, holding open the back door impatiently, and clearing my throat until I was hoarse. Eventually, I'd clasped her elbow and steered her firmly back to the car, ignoring my aunt who loped awkwardly along behind, imploring us to come back and visit her again soon. By that point however, I was struggling to bid her a civil goodbye. Avoiding her eye, I certainly did not look back and, for quite some time afterward, the truth is, when it came to Auntie Joan, I had simply nothing to say.
On the road however, my equanimity seemed to return, the situation now far more under my control. With the motorways clear, the weather settled, and Louisa drifting in and out of sleep beside me, I'd eased the seat back, grateful for some peace and quiet in which to think. But we had barely passed Plymouth before a foment of old fears crept into my mind. The harder I resisted, the weightier the qualms; serious and significant, and emerging like long dead wooly mammoths from my internal permafrost. The truth was I had always known; through some form of osmosis, since early adolescence I'd always understood. As flawed and difficult and quite unlikeable as I was, the Ellingham line would end with me.
So, in many ways, I'd considered it serendipitous that devoting oneself to medical science left little room for anything else. Of course, my disinclination to breed was reinforced, even encouraged, by those with whom I mixed. Of course, she had been determined that her career would always come first, she was adamant professional ambition eclipsed everything else; peers, personal attachments, outside interests, love. But for all Edith's single-mindedness, for all her scorn at the notion of motherhood, I admit that I never challenged her, I felt neither regret nor disappointment at the ruthlessness of her stance.
Odd the things that one remembers; condensation had spread rapidly up the windscreen then, coinciding with a sudden and dramatic drop of temperature within the car. Reaching down, I increased the heat, turning the demister up to the highest setting. Next to me, Louisa stirred, clutching tightly at the rolled up coat in her arms and muttering something indiscernible before settling back to sleep. Looking across at her, I found myself helpless to prevent it; another long shuddering sigh escaping emphatically from my chest. As much as it crushed me to acknowledge it, when it came to Louisa's temperament, Joan was unerringly correct. Whenever I'd had the opportunity to observe the way she was with children, hadn't I been left feeling somewhat affected, almost wistful, wondering how my life might have been different had I a mother with one iota of Louisa's kindness?
I suspect I was at the crux of it all then; acknowledging ours as a stunted, misshapen family tree, more reminiscent of an amateur's attempt at bonsai than any mighty forest oak. One aunt childless, the other as determined a spinster as you might ever expect to meet; we were a distant, cynical sort of clan. Without doubt my parents saw their son as an inconvenience to be endured, an irritation to be ignored, and I knew I was a mistake; an unwanted child whose arrival had condemned us all to a life of mutual resentment; of sarcasm, soured relations and meals consumed in bitter silence.
However, I cannot deny that, even when I was one myself, I thoroughly detested children. First and foremost they were savages. Bullies. Noisy, unruly, virus vectors that were insanitary and disgusting, not to mention burdens that would, inevitably ruin the lives of both their parents. And, as if to torment me, they were suddenly everywhere; the world outside the vehicle a surreal environment consisting largely of playgrounds and nursery schools; every woman pregnant, every pedestrian holding the hand of a toddler, or self-consciously pushing a pram. Miserably, I knew I was in a predicament that had no solution; the words lighting up in my mind as if they were six feet tall and flashing in neon. For as long as I lived, I would never have the skills nor the temperament to be any sort of father; the only certainty now was being doomed to disappoint Louisa again.
Lost in my thoughts, the sun had set with a whimper, a brief glow on the horizon glimpsed only in the rear view mirror. The shortest day was almost upon us and already a gloom had descended; oncoming headlights illuminating the car's interior. Glancing across at her became like a compulsion; she seemed to have become even more mesmerising in the time that we'd been apart. Sleeping so soundly, her expression was gentle, almost angelic, belying her courage and determination, and the impudence that simmered constantly beneath the surface when she was awake. In that moment, Louisa's needs were suddenly so very real to me, and knowing that I would fail her weighed on my shoulders like an unbearably heavy yoke.
I'd always suspected, but observing the way she dealt with the distressed little boy the previous day had only reinforced to me the sort of mother she'd make. I had seldom encountered anyone so throughly at ease with children, so affectionate, so instinctively maternal; of course she was always going to want a family of her own. And it was so easy to picture her with a baby cradled in her arms, or a toddler curled up upon her lap, just as it was impossible to imagine her as cold, or impatient, or cruelly dismissive with any child we might bring into the world. It was then that my selfishness began to trouble me significantly. For God's sake Ellingham, I'd railed at myself despondently, how could you have been so thoughtless when you asked her to be your wife?
Jaw clenched, I'd put my foot down, accelerating along the outside lane of the motorway, overtaking lorry after lorry, passing innumerable white vans. Outside, pockets of mist settled around the watercourses and the tyres hummed against the bitumen. Scowling out at the road ahead, the hours slid away in despondent silence. When Louisa eventually woke, she was disoriented, sweetly vague, looking at me with a softness and innocence that raked at my insides. Of course, I'd prepared the speech in my head by then; honest, factual, thorough and impeccably reasoned but, like a coward, I simply couldn't deliver it. How could I raise the subject of children with her now and risk losing her again so soon?
After a moment, she had reached for my hand, wordlessly, holding it in hers as we navigated what remained of the A316. Closer to the flat, I'd stopped at Sainsbury's for milk, and the crusty white bread I knew she loved, and she'd smiled at me sleepily, squeezing my fingers and confessing she could eat a horse. And when I returned to the car, remorse having driven me to replace at least some of the appalling complex carbohydrates I'd so recently discarded, she had glanced into the shopping bags, a mischievous smile playing about her lips. Irrepressible, she had leaned across the seats to kiss me, silencing me again, wrapping her arms around my neck in a way that I never could resist. Willpower was futile, and so inevitably I gave in; her lips so soft and gentle, her hair so deliciously familiar as it brushed against my skin.
"Thank you for coming to get me." She whispered, and I'd turned hurriedly away, ashamed of how my lip was trembling and how my eyes had brimmed with tears.
Fortunately, I'd pulled myself together the usual way, shoulders back, jaw clenched, glaring sourly at the world. it was a relief, too, to claim a parking space immediately outside the flat, especially as Louisa had laughed and called it a positive omen. Slipping from the car, she had bounced up the steps to the door, swinging her handbag,her breath condensing in emphatic clouds as she punched the numbers into the keypad. Slamming the boot closed, I'd glanced up at her; her excitement palpable as she hugged herself against the creeping cold. The glow of the streetlight and the lingering mist made her seem even more ethereal and I'd allowed myself to stare at herfor a moment. While it was miraculous to me, to have have reclaimed something so precious, something I believed I'd lost forever, the reality was I was utterly torn in two; desperate to revel in the absolution I knew she offered while, simultaneously, feeling like a complete and utter fraud.
"Oh my god, Martin, this is delicious!" She'd enthused, after I had prepared a very late supper, sitting back, oddly satisfied as I watched her tuck in to her second bowl of Bouillabaisse.
A napkin was jammed haphazardly into the neck of her rather fitting sweater, and she'd nodded at me encouragingly as she dunked a generous slice of baguette into her soup. Incredible to think that, only a few days ago, I had been an automaton, plumbing the depths of despair, preparing complex concoctions simply to distract myself. Focusing on endless list of ingredients, consumed by the complicated process, desperate not to think. Yet here I was tonight, utterly in her thrall once more, trying to maintain an appearance of dispassionate calm as she heaped hyperbolic praise upon my modest cooking skills. Brandishing her spoon, licking her lips, she seemed effortlessly to fill the room with warmth. My god, I had missed her. Even dressed all in black she was so irrepressibly vibrant; her energy, her presence, more comforting than words could ever allow me to express.
I'd grunted, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin, a self conscious attempt at deflecting what was thoroughly undeserved acclaim. It was no effort at all to prepare a meal for her. Besides, practical expressions of my feelings always came more easily to me than any words. Muttering incoherently, I'd attempted a diversion, telling her of my plan to do the dishes, to unpack my luggage, to shower and then go straight to bed. But her thoughts had drifted back to the events of the weekend, and she seemed intent on dissecting every single moment of our time together in Portwenn. So animated, her eyes flashing, her smile hypnotic; she was breathtaking as she expounded on the histories of those we had encountered, the very people, it seemed, for who the term Village Idiot was coined. Resting my spoon against the rim of my half empty bowl, I was content simply to listen, consumed by own my dilemma; wondering if holding her in my arms as we fell asleep was something my conscience might allow?
"You were absolutely brilliant." She'd said, shaking her head slowly from side to side, smiling though her eyes seemed to glisten with moisture.
Attempting nonchalance, I'd shrugged at her mention of the tension pneumothorax case, glad of my napkin to ease the discomfort of my suddenly perspiring palms. As embarrassed as I was, as unworthy as I believed myself to be however, I can't deny that I'd clung to the way her praise had made me feel. Inexplicably, Louisa always had seen something in me. In her eyes anyway, I was always so much more than anyone else would ever have had me believe.
"I can't imagine how it must feel to face those sorts of life and death situations,Martin. Knowing you can, you know, sort of even change the course of history…" She'd added, her tone rather sweetly earnest, as she dabbed absently at the crumbs upon her plate.
"That would be the last thing on my mind…there's simply not the time." I'd assured her crisply. "In an emergency, you rely on instinct…and training of course."
"Well, either way, no one in the village is gonna forget you in a hurry, are they? Free beer for life, that's what I heard…"
I didn't have to look up to understand that she was teasing me, just as it was unnecessary to point out that I didn't drink. I could picture that insolent smirk, that sideways glance but, before I could think of a suitable response, I was aware of a stocking-clad foot sliding up my calf and beginning, lightly, to caress the inside of my thigh. So much for leaving the kitchen tidy, so much for putting on a load of washing; she will always be the most irresistible distraction, the ultimate test of my resolve. And that smile, so telling upon my respiration, her meaning unmistakeable; Louisa, so beautiful, so provocative; a guided missile, honing in on the emptiness inside of me, intent on filling it til I could hold no more.
"I was…glad…when you…umm…you extricated the child from that situation." I murmured awkwardly, casting my mind back to the moment. "Its distress was certainly aggravating the mother's condition. The…umm…the screaming…and so forth…Most upsetting."
She regarded me calmly as she chewed. "Anyone could have done that, Martin…picked him up I mean, all he needed was a cuddle…"
"But no one else did, did they?"
She rolled her eyes. "Well, yeah. But only because they were all too busy gawping…"
"Or, perhaps they couldn't. Perhaps they simply weren't capable of it…." I heard myself say and my voice was hoarse. "I mean, I couldn't…."
She laughed. "Oh, Martin, of course you could. Obviously not today because you were busy with Mary and everything but I know you! You would never ignore anyone in distress…."
"If they required medical assistance, of course not." I'd interrupted quickly. "But I'm not sure there was much I could do to placate a wailing infant, in the absence of condition that required my professional skill…"
"Oh right…so, what are we talking about? Something like….pulling a little kid out of a ditch and piggybacking her all the way up the hill and along the coastal path just so you can get her back to her mum, Hmm?" She'd replied, lifting her chin, her eyes sparkling. "I mean, is that the sort of thing you're sayin' that you can't do?"
For a moment I'd stared at her, rendered utterly mute, and helpless to explain that she was wrong, and my only skill with people was fixing them…diagnosing them, treating them, even monitoring them for years afterwards if they were chronic cases.
"I'm not sure that's the same thing…" I'd muttered. "And, anyway, it was rather a long time ago…"
"It's exactly the same thing, Martin." She'd insisted, her gaze fixed firmly on her empty bowl as she scraped her spoon hopefully across the surface. "It's taking care of people. And you're very good at it."
I'd grunted loudly and dismissively, watching as she ran her finger around the inside of her bowl, intent on scooping out any remnant soup. Frowning, I'd watched as she inspected her hand, carefully licking any trace remaining on her fingers, oblivious, preoccupied, her attention clearly elsewhere. Of course I should have known better, she was simply summoning strength. I felt the force even as she raised her head, her expression narrowing as she'd fixed me with that look, her eviscerating stare, the one that cleaves open my chest as if she has taken to me with a bone saw.
"Why do you do that? Why do you want people to think you don't care?" She'd demanded, folding her arms.
I'd leapt to my feet then, snatching away her bowl and discarding it with mine in the sink. Frozen to the spot, I'd gripped the edge of the worktop, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish expiring on the shagpile. I'd wanted so desperately to tell her everything, to confide my fears at my own incompetence, and to share this insidious dismay this sense of dread that, invariably, I would let her down. Bloody hell, attempting to be sensitive and understanding was all so very confusing. Deceiving her was untenable, yet something told me this was an appalling time to expose the gulf between us. She was emotional and I was exhausted, and I'd learned enough to know that blundering in blindly now was likely an act of self-immolation. Somehow it was obvious; this was not the moment to air our polarising views on procreation, to test our new and fragile bond via a debate about our moral principles.
But, my mind was slow, sluggish, clouded as it was by too many feelings and, before I could think of a single non-inflammatory response, she'd climbed out of her chair and wandered away.
"I'll get that!" I'd insisted, relieved to have an opportunity for practical assistance. Spurred on by guilt, I'd marched across the room, intercepting her before she could attempt to move her luggage, stubbornly unaided.
She'd smiled at me ruefully, stretching her arms upwards luxuriantly as she stifled a yawn. Studiously, I'd ignored the glimpse of skin, and the flash of silky undergarment visible as her sweater slipped tantalisingly upwards. Frankly, my reaction was ridiculous. I knew what every square inch of her body looked like, how it felt, how it tasted, yet a brief peek had fomented everything, and I found myself longing for her like a hormonal schoolboy. Determined I should punish myself by carry everything unassisted, I'd walked briskly behind her to our room, paying no attention to the curve of her hips, or that swinging walk; or the way her hair shone like obsidian, fanned out across her shoulders.
Determined to focus on unpacking, disappointingly, it had not taken long to find myself losing interest. From the bathroom, the soft notes of a song reached me as I placed my ties on their rack; Louisa's familiar, cheerful, if slightly distracted hum. I found myself listening to her as I placed the trees in my shoes, bemused at how something as abstract as a half heard melody could really be quite soothing. But the comfort arose only because the sound came from Louisa; anyone else singing would have caused me paroxysms of irritation. I'd thrown more than one registrar out of my theatre simply for having the temerity to croon along under their breath. Perhaps it was her Cornish lilt that made it seem so pleasant, perhaps her ability to carry a tune, or to hit and hold a note. Whatever the reason, it was clear by my own response that her voice could ease the agitated and calm the fractious. Worse still, it was frighteningly easy to imagine that tenderness in a gentle lilting lullaby.
With my suitcase only half emptied, I had followed the sound, hovering in the doorway for a moment, watching as she stood oblivious at the vanity, clad only in her underwear, a silky floral combination I had never seen before. As she peered critically at her own reflection, I slipped in behind her, placing my toilet bag carefully down beside her and raising an eyebrow at her as our eyes met in the mirror.
"I'd forgotten how the wind in the village dries out your skin…" she said, grimacing at me before rummaging about in her little makeup case.
Leaning in over her shoulder, of course I could discern nothing amiss. Her complexion was smooth and clear; there was no evidence of xeroderma, no sign of any cutaneous inflammatory response. Clearing my throat, I'd wanted desperately to tell her how flawless she really was, how I believed her to be the epitome of everything exquisitely feminine; on one hand so soft and delicate, on the other hand so resilient and strong. But, instead, I'd stood there in stupefied silence; gazing back at her as she smiled and dabbed little spots of cream across her face. She seemed so at ease, so natural, so positive and every shallow breath I took brought me closer to some sort of comprehension. That Louisa had ever given me a second glance was a miracle in itself. As perceptive and astute as she was, that she had accepted my proposal was certainly another. And surely that meant, didn't it, that if she did want to have children, she must, potentially, see me involved somehow as their father?
As I struggled to take it all in, her hands had gone to her her head and I was distracted; a few rapid rotations of her wrists and her hair was in an loosely constructed bun, her elegant neck exposed before me. A slender lock was astray, curled against her thoracic spine and, as I looked at it, my hands had twitched where I had them pressed hard against my sides. I'd swallowed hard at the delicate satin straps draped across her shoulders, and the pale pink lace that accentuated the fullness of her chest. Once again, our eyes met, and she smiled, as if she still had so much faith in me, as if she believed in me more than I believed even in myself.
"I, umm…is this new?" I'd asked, my voice hesitant, and thick with anticipation.
She'd nodded and I wondered if she knew how I longed to touch her, to trace her scapula through the filmy fabric. For a moment it had felt like utter torment as I wrestled with myself, yet she didn't even seem to mind that I was staring, her expression so sweetly trusting as I stepped in closer, leaning back against me as I give way to desire and slipped my hands around her waist. Seeing myself behind her in the mirror was strangely disorienting. My fingers seemed so broad as I watched them slide up the sides of her rib cage, so rugged and unrefined as I eased her flimsy undergarment upwards and cupped my fingers around her breasts. God, how I'd missed hearing her gasp as she said my name, the skin of her neck so soft, so warm against my lips, delicately vanilla-scented and just as sweet.
There would never be anyone else in the world for me but Louisa. I couldn't close my eyes, I couldn't look away, mesmerised by the image of us together. And I could hear her breathe, more ragged, more urgent as she pressed herself against me, snatching at my hand and sliding it over the firm smooth flesh below her navel. Closing my eyes, I pressed my mouth to her throat, the fabric of her underwear so silky where it stretched across the back of my hand. Thank god she'd coaxed me into losing my inhibitions, thank god she'd taught me spontaneity; as she writhed, and moaned, and squeaked my name, I'd rather admired the man that I had become.
She'd started laughing then, urging me on with a voice low and husky and imploring. I glanced up and our eyes had locked together, her expression so sparkling and wicked that I knew then that she wanted me to take her, to have her where we stood. I'd stared helplessly, as she slipped out of her underwear; a nymph, an enchantress; who would arch her back as I entered, gripping me so tightly I would abandon any lingering self-restraint. Her face was more beautiful than I had ever seen it, her body that of a goddess, all arousing curves and flawless skin. God help me, I wanted to feel her shudder, I needed to hear her cry out my name; that sweet, mad moment she and I would be utterly fused together, and I would whisper hoarsely that I loved her, though I could barely breathe at all.
Her arms were outstretched, her head thrown back, her long fingers splayed flat against the vanity. I'd paused for just an instant to take in our reflection, wanting to sear the image permanently into my mind. She'd gazed back at me; blithe, effervescent, her lips parted, her expression unwavering as I'd taken hold of her hips. Closing my eyes, I'd kissed her shoulder blade, her ear, the nape of her neck, slow and deliberate because she'd urged me to hurry. Finding a strange stillness in the frenzy of the moment, I'd smiled as she suggested what I should do, as if I weren't rather committed to that activity already. And so I murmured her name, teasing her with a touch, the hint of an incursion, provoking her with a subtle smooth reconnaissance that becomes a slow irresistible stroke. And when we found the rhythm, everything became lubricious, everything was sensory; I closed my eyes, and lost myself in her.
When we slipped apart, with unsteady legs and hammering heart, I'd hung my head to catch my breath. It was only as she pressed past me, and I became conscious of the enormity of it all. As I struggled out of my shirt, she'd taken my hand and pulled me into the shower, entwining herself around me, standing on her tiptoes and whispering into my ear. Everything was going to be alright, she'd reassured me, there was nothing life could throw at us that we couldn't overcome.
"And it won't be long before every hospital in the U.K is hammering at your door." She'd added, running a bar of soap haphazardly across my chest. "You'll see Martin. Trust me…."
I had watched her ministrations in stupefied silence; exhausted, exhilarated, recalling how six months ago, it was inconceivable that anyone could have such faith in me. That I could confess the whole sorry Imperial saga and she'd still be so vehement in her support was almost unimaginable. I'd watched the water cascade across her shoulders wondering if it were possible to ever love her more. And I understood now, having allowed myself to trust her, I felt safer than I ever had before. And what of her assertion that I'm capable of caring? What if she were right and that emotion is still there, buried deep inside me, and all I needed was her help? With the soap in hand, she'd hesitated at my lower abdominals, waiting for me to inform her briskly as I usually would: thank you, but I'll take it from here, before turning away shyly, and completing my own ablutions. But, just like that, another inhibition is summarily discarded, another barrier completely disappears. I clasp my hands behind my head, lean my back against the tiles and, calmly, close my eyes.