In the bustle and disorder that followed my arrival at Ms. Freethy's cottage, the boxes and cases containing my meagre possessions were deposited in what was to be my new bedroom. Coat hangers were fetched, pots of tea were brewed, and there seemed to be helpers and well-wishers turning up from everywhere which, in turn, led to a sort of disordered, cheerful frenzy. I had not expected this and, while initially gratifying, I was suddenly overwhelmed. I had hoped for a quiet evening; saying goodbye to Martin, getting to know my host, and settling in to my new surrounds peacefully. As usual, the village had other ideas.
At one point, I remember being swept along by the eagerness of my new landlady, her voice earnest as she led me to my cosy new bedroom. I recall my enthusiastic response which was genuine and well received but actually just masked my true feelings of bewilderment and sudden extreme tiredness. I remember the pastel colour scheme, the smell of fresh paint and the soft new rug beside the bed. But, mostly, I remember seeing Martin, head and shoulders above everyone else, standing quietly in the background, immaculate and incongruous amongst the influx of casually dressed villagers.
From a distance, he gave me a brief, querulous look, that indicated his slight concern, before the serious scowl that had now become almost reassuring, returned. I flashed him a grateful smile in response before someone thrust a mug of tea into my hand, and I was momentarily distracted. After thanking whoever it was, and again being quizzed about my well being, I turned back but Martin was no longer there. After a quick reconnoitre of the house, I was dismayed to discover that he was gone; his car was no longer outside the cottage and his departure had seemingly gone unnoticed by everyone except me. For a moment I stood at the front door feeling utterly bereft until I convinced myself that he would never leave without saying goodbye. I imagined him on another important errand, or perhaps fetching Mrs Norton so we could have one last meal together, and I waited, listening politely as people attempted to engage me in conversation but, all the time, looking over their shoulders, willing Martin to walk back through the door.
But, when the last of the visitors had drifted away to their homes, the sky had gone dark and a cool sea fog had rolled in, I stood at the sink, washing cups and stared dully out of the window into the gloom. I knew then that I had to face the fact that he wasn't coming back, and I felt absolutely crushed.
The fact that Martin had gone without saying goodbye actually bothered me a lot those first few days but, honestly, there was just so much going on, and so much to organise, that I had little time to dwell on it during the day. Karen Freethy was a force of nature and she really took over, leading me through the maze that was my complicated situation at that time. There were so many things to think about and I was so grateful for her capable, no-nonsense approach to smoothing out the inevitable complications that occur when you are fourteen years old and your hopelessly unreliable parents abandon you to the unofficial care of an entire village. So I was again swept along, still a bit numb from the shock of it all, frantic during the day, exhausted at night. It wasn't until the following weekend, when I was standing under the shower, that it hit me. I remembered where I'd been just a week earlier, and the image of Martin standing in Mrs Norton's kitchen came into my mind. He had handed me my boiled egg so solemnly, and he'd sliced my toast into perfectly even soldiers; so for a moment I just had this lovely feeling of being nurtured and protected; a wonderful sensation of normalcy in what had been such an intensely emotional few days.
I'd commended him on the perfectly cooked egg and laughed at him as he'd started to explain boiling points and the molecular structure of albumen. Recalling the conversation, and his awkward and self conscious kindness, I felt the tears prick at my eyes. In that second, all my resolve and determination to overcome everything that had happened, all my vows to remain positive despite having been effectively jettisoned by my parents, it all just crumbled, and I began to sob helplessly. As the hot water ran down my face, I leaned against the wall, wrapped my arms around by myself and wept until I could weep no longer.
Later that year, like every other teenager in the UK, we all went mad for Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Caroline's dad did indeed buy her the double album and I wore out the cassette copy that she had taped for me until it disintegrated in my tape deck. Until this day, I find music very evocative of certain periods in my life but it is a bit embarrassing to recall now how, as I listened to the lyrics of 'The Power of Love', it was only Martin I dreamed about; aloof, oblivious and three hundred miles away
As the weeks went by, whenever I thought of Martin, he always appeared in my mind as golden haired and smooth-skinned, his honey-coloured complexion glowing as if he were bathed in warm sunlight. If I recalled his voice, it was as rich and smooth as Belgian chocolate and, as he'd said my name, I'd remember how the corners of his soft blue eyes crinkled with concern. To my teenage mind, he became a paragon of all the virtues that I felt to be most desirable: decisive, dependable, and always in control. For a while, despite not having seen him for months, my feelings for him had not diminished and so convinced was I of his moral and intellectual superiority that I confidently advised Isobel and Caroline of my plans to one day marry a doctor, as it seemed to me that, because they took care of people, they were the best of men.
Please wait here for me, I won't be long
Martin
Somewhat sentimentally, I had kept the note from that fateful day when he'd been so sweet in helping me collect my things from that miserable, cold cottage and, while still in the full grip of my infatuation, I'd pressed it tenderly into my journal. Every day for months I had re-read those words but, as I was well aware, there was no coded message, no underlying implication, no ongoing connection. I accepted that he had gone back to London forever and, although I realised that he was bound to already have found himself another girlfriend, I tried not to think about it.
I didn't see much of Mrs. Norton for quite a few weeks afterwards either. Karen told me that her car troubles turned out to be far worse than first thought; her Land Rover had too many things wrong with it to be worth repairing and she had to drive around in a clapped out old Morris that someone loaned her until she could sort out a permanent replacement. She phoned me a couple of times after the weekend I'd spent with her but she didn't mention Martin and I felt too awkward to ask her anything. After that, I did briefly wonder if he might join her for Christmas, but there was no sign of him and, actually, that's about when I gave up on the dream.
The saddest part, I think, was that Martin never ever returned to Port Wenn and so I had never seen him again. Not long afterwards, I turned fifteen, and life was changing so rapidly; every day a new experience, full days and so much to look forward to but so many decisions to make. By Christmas, I'd filled all the pages of that year's dog-eared journal, eventually slipping it to the back of a drawer and moving onto the next. Martin eventually receded from my consciousness until he was reduced to a vague, pleasant, reassuring memory, rather like the lodestar that guided you to safe harbour one stormy night at sea.
I still felt the weight of his expectations though, even years later, studying long into the night, preparing for my A levels. While I was never going to come near his lofty educational achievements, he had generously favoured me with one very important study tip. Of course, I'd rolled my eyes when I'd slipped into my new bed, on that first night at Karen's cottage and, under my pillow, I'd discovered several of his collection of Baroque cassette tapes. Looking back, it was such a Martin thing to do. He was right of course and, despite a tentative and highly secretive start, I began to rely on Mssrs Bach, Vivaldi and Albinoni in a way I'd never imagined possible before I'd received that memorable Martin Ellingham lecture on concentration.
I'm not giving him all the credit because I worked really bloody hard, but I was able to focus well enough, despite his concerns, to later achieve the A levels required to apply for my preferred University courses so I will always be grateful to Martin for that.
In the New Year, I dreaded the ordeal of Dad's trial and I braced myself for more unease and disruption but he surprised everyone by offering an early guilty plea to some slightly less serious charges, and ended up getting sentenced to seven years in some place I had never heard of, up north somewhere. Mrs Norton offered to take me up to visit him but, stubbornly, I decided that I didn't actually want to see him. I also didn't take too kindly to suggestions that I might want to reconsider and, as I remember, I attained peak teenage girl that day as I flounced out of the house, slamming doors and disappearing off up the coastal path for several hours; spending all afternoon feeling quite sorry for myself, and angry at the world. As liberating as it had felt to storm out, by the time the sun started to go down, I was hungry, cold and more than a little embarrassed. I crept home and slipped in quietly through the back door. Karen didn't mention anything about it to me afterwards though, and no one asked me about visiting dad again for quite some time.