He was nothing at all like I imagined. On the telephone, he'd given the impression of age; business-like yet affable as he introduced himself; a courtesy I was grateful for since I had not the vaguest idea whom he was. As he spoke, I found myself attempting to place his accent, noting his growing earnestness and the way he seemed slightly out of breath. And then there was that hint of a speech impediment; sufficient just to pique my professional interest. There's usually a cause, you see, and I'd wondered fleetingly about his relationship with his father, or perhaps if, as a natural left hander, he'd been forced to use his right.
But, in the interests of clarity, I really must go back to the beginning. When his call came through, I'd been running late to a clinical meeting, two harried-looking therapists waiting pointedly by the door. Almost buried under folders as I was, it had been jolly tempting just to ignore the blasted contraption as it nearly rang off the hook. But I'd answered it, tucking the hand piece beneath my chin and fishing in my pocket for a pen. After a moment however, I'd had to wave my colleagues away, sinking into my chair uneasily as I reached for my diary and attempted to regather my wits. There's no point denying it, the information he imparted was really too appalling for words and, as my hand passed wearily over my eyes, I felt my composure falter.
Of course, I'd agreed to meet him the following Sunday, observing (with a feeble attempt at detachment) my own burgeoning sense of outrage. In fact, I'd been simply furious by the time I scribbled 5pm, The Gallery, Pimlico in capital letters emphatically beneath his name. In the gloomy grip of the winter solstice, the weekend had come and gone, and it was already dark when I gritted my teeth and set out along St. George's Square. The rain had been constant all day but, by the time I left my flat, it had eased somewhat and I was rather glad of the walk. Though I might expound frequently on the importance of keeping a lid on one's emotions, the knot in my stomach gave my surrender to consternation away.
You see, as much as one attempts to remain clinical, after a long day of analysing case notes, and ploughing through some jolly harrowing police files, even my reliably dispassionate exterior was displaying a number of hairline cracks. Avoiding the shallow puddles that shimmered beneath the streetlights, I couldn't deny that I had felt out of sorts for the past few days but to blame my work entirely was perhaps more than a touch ingenuous; the truth, of course, was rather more burdensome than that. Since his phone call, a dull anger had chafed away at me and, now, every slap of my shoes against the damp of the pavement sounded ominous, as if I were marching in time to a funereal dirge. But the most disturbing thing of all was the culpability that had begun to weigh me down, as heavy now upon my shoulders as a cumbersome, leaden yoke.
Upon arrival at The Gallery, my local public house, I was pleased to see that he was sitting exactly where we'd arranged, leaping to his feet and smiling genially as he held out his hand. You know I've always approved of punctuality, I think it goes a long way to establishing a relationship on the right footing. And he seemed a genuine type; open stance, frank gaze, no obvious nervous tics. I hadn't expected him to be so young of course, nor quite so plump; certainly, genetics had dealt him rather a harsh hand; to find himself so prematurely bald must really have been quite a blow. Sadly, for the most part, his features were quite unremarkable, except for his eyes; such an intense and crystalline shade of blue.
"Doctor Ellingham." He says, his handshake firm and warm. "What a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Yesss…" I reply, allowing myself the driest of smiles. "Though, under the circumstances I think you had better call me Ruth…"
Unusually, I warm to the chap rather quickly. Having now attained middle age, I'm not ashamed to admit that I particularly enjoy the company of younger men. Confident and enthusiastic, there's a positivity about them that I do find rather engaging. And, like most of his kind, young Chris Parsons treats me with a reverence and respect that twenty one year old me could never even have imagined. He pulls out the chair closest to the fire and I nod at him as I lower myself gratefully into it; how wonderful that accepting a man's attentions no longer feels like I now owe him something in return. No, thank you, I'm not in a draught, yes please, you may buy me a drink; I nurse the generous glass of Balvenie between thawing fingers and listen carefully to what he has to say.
Dismally, nothing he tells me comes as much of a surprise. My brother was always an egoist and I recall how, even as a child, I took such a dim view of my mother inflating his sense of self-importance. In her eyes her son could certainly do no wrong. Admittedly, Christopher was clever; good looking in a dated, sixties-film-star sort of way, with an oily charm that opened up opportunity everywhere he turned. But I was his older sister, just as jolly clever, and uniquely placed to bring him down a peg or two; whenever, parading about in his uniform, fawning girls had rendered him vainglorious or my mother had slipped him an extra large slice of cake. Though he was quick-witted, I was quicker, and he might have been sharp in his observations but I was positively acerbic.
Being so close in age, it was entirely natural that we competed, usually rather fiercely. I may have been the fairer sex but I was wiry and strong and just as combative. As we got older, it was school reports and exam results that became the contest; whom came top of their form, whom gained entry to the most prestigious college. I recall rainy Sunday afternoons at home, and hours of vigorous debate, arguing over theorem as medical students are wont to do. If our father were there, there was a double triumph in my vanquishing of the golden boy; to his credit, Christopher seldom sulked for longer than five mulish minutes, and my great reward for beating him was always Henry's approving nod.
The pub is filling up. I close my eyes momentarily, cringing as my new acquaintance familiarises me with a litany of sordid detail. Staring again at my glass, swilling around the glowing amber contents, I recall that I was studying in Paris, and living in a tiny flat in the 7th arrondissement, when my brother up and married her. I'd taken to wearing a beret, and smoking Turkish cigarettes, with one hand on my hip, as I quoted Lacan and Proust. Newly arrived, I'd been so chuffed to receive Joan's postcard but her news had seen me recoil, her disgust at the new betrothal leaping off the page. Before I'd left home I had been aware he was walking out with a particularly dreadful ex-classmate of mine but I was so sure he'd discard her, just as he'd done with all the others that had gone before. Even as the wedding day approached, I was convinced Christopher must soon realise his bride-to-be was the most malignant of narcissists; never mind a liar and a common thief.
In my defence, I'd been practising the skill of disassociation, of removing myself from situations and simply observing proceedings from a neutral point of view. And I suppose then, absorbed in Freud as I was, I saw Christopher's decision to marry her as an expression of his ego and his id. Or perhaps Joan had been closer to the mark, with her usual succinct turn of phrase: never have two people more deserving of one another ever been joined in holy matrimony; between my younger siblings, there really was no love lost. Soon after, splashed across the society pages, my brother's grin was incandescent but, though his bride smiled too, her stare was glacially cold. While my mother snipped the cuttings devotedly, the ones she sent on to me I used to line the bins. And so might I have continued to view their union had I not discovered on my return to London that the vulpine Ice Queen, Margaret, was apparently with child.
To his credit, my young companion does seem inordinately fond of my nephew, and I can't help but admire his resourcefulness in his bid to garner my help. He buys me another drink, and the earnestness returns to his tone as he regales me with a list of those whom he has canvassed, and those from whom return favours have been requested. It reads like a veritable Who's Who of the London Medical Fraternity and as I watch his cheeks turn rather pink, I smile to myself. If networking was an Olympic sport, this young Chris Parsons would certainly be on the dais for Great Britain. The whisky burns like boiling honey as it slides across my throat, and I place my empty tumbler thoughtfully to one side.
"Right." I say eventually, scribbling my home phone number across the back of my card. "Let us go into battle then. Best of luck getting Martin to agree to meet with us but, from what I've seen of you tonight, I'd say the odds were somewhat even."
He smiles at me, looking for all the world like an eager Labrador.
"Can I walk you home?" He asks. "Or perhaps I could call you a taxi?"
"Thank you for the offer but I'm quite capable of tottering back to my flat." I assure him crisply and, with a wry smile, I take my leave.
Less than a week later, I am in a taxi, crawling down the Cromwell Rd. My co-conspirator and I have spoken twice on the phone in the interim and he insists that my nephew is coming around to the idea that he might actually require our assistance. I'm not entirely sure I believe him; humility is not an Ellingham trait, nor is gratitude nor accepting help with good grace. Despite all that, I do find myself looking forward to the meeting. I have rather a soft spot for Martin; have done ever since he was a smiley, tow-headed toddler, wobbling about his nursery on chubby little legs. Joan, of course, was besotted from day one and she'd take care of him any chance she got. To be honest, I preferred him once he was able to hold down a conversation, which admittedly Martin could, from quite a tender age.
Oh my word, he was so bright and engaging; picking up language and learning new skills so precociously fast. His aunts, unbiased of course, considered him a prodigy but, disturbingly, I noticed that his mother was disinclined to take an interest at all. One was given cause to suspect that the state of my brother's marriage was already less than fairytale. In fact, the few times I visited, the atmosphere in the house was so glacial, it was rather bordering on hostile. If Margaret spoke at all, her tone was arch and altogether bitter; worse still was the sight of Christopher, stomping about dyspeptically, his face plastered with an angry sneer.
I haven't called on Martin here before; remiss of me I suppose but we never have been that sort of family. It's a good street in an excellent location and, suddenly, I'm oddly proud of him. Rather more fervently, I'm jolly anxious he shouldn't lose anything he's worked so hard to gain. I press the bell and a voice comes through the intercom; friendly, breathless and, most surprisingly, female. Of course. The Girl. The one in the park, I assume, though Joan's descriptions of their comings and goings have left me quite bewildered. Are they together? If she's here, one can only assume they are. I climb the stairs, admiring the patinated mahogany panelling; it seems that Martin and I share a similar sense of taste. The front door opens, and there she is, beaming at me with her simply dazzling smile. No doubt what the attraction is from my nephew's point of view, I think to myself somewhat wryly; she really is quite lovely. In a youthful sort of way.
"Oh hi! Thank you so much for coming! We have met…I'm Louisa…umm…" she says and she laughs. "I really don't know what I'm supposed to call you…Doctor Ellingham…or would you prefer Aunt Ruth?"
As vivacious and attractive as she is, I can't help but wonder what she and Martin can possibly have in common. I force a mirthless smile to my lips.
"Ruth will suffice" I inform her coolly.
Another nervous smile, and she ushers me in. My first impression is of towering ceilings, pale walls; elegant, monastic and spare. As one might expect, the flat is a monument to cleanliness, the floors highly polished, not a thing out of place. Without even thinking, I feel compelled to slip off my shoes. As she closes the door, I find her body language intriguing. Martin is like my father: quiet, contemplative and still. The girl radiates an entirely different energy, her expressions fluid, her speech patterns erratic, gesturing constantly with her arms and hands. And, my goodness, she is so very Cornish, her heavy accent giving her origins away. Holding the back of a chair, she invites me to sit down but I find myself staring back at her, telling her that I'd much prefer to stand.
"It really is lovely to finally meet you properly. " She breathes. "Joan has told me such a lot about you."
"Yes, dear." I reply, watching her closely. "And I, you. Am I right in thinking you've been to Portwenn quite recently? Some trouble with your family?"
The smile slips from her face and for a split second her expression is even rather grave.
"Yes." She answers quietly, casting her eyes down for a moment before regathering herself with an emphatic toss of her head. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Please." I reply, observing how she darts about the kitchen, deliberate and energetic, and rather noticeably self-conscious.
"Ruth, can I tempt you to a biscuit?" She says, hopefully, seemingly taken aback when I give a dismissive shake of my head.
I notice her hands as she places the cup and saucer gingerly before me; smooth skin and long, elegant fingers. And I'm rather surprised to see she does not bite her nails when she really does seem the type.
"Nice to see a bit of sun today, wasn't it?" She says, with another attempt at enthusiasm, and she tugs at the bottom of her jersey. "We went for a walk…it was really lovely actually…just around Kensington Park…not anywhere, you know…far away…"
"You frequent the park, do you?" I enquire pleasantly, raising my eyebrows. "I seem to recall that's where we were first introduced?"
Again, her smile disappears and, as her cheeks colour, she bites hard her bottom lip. "Yes, actually, I…I think we did. Umm…yeah…'scuse me, Ruth..I might just go and see where Martin's got to, shall I? He might not have heard you arrive…"
She bolts away, like a startled cat, and just as lithe and graceful. I envy young women their youth, wasted on them of course. And that glorious, thick, dark mane bouncing along behind her, not a grey hair to be seen, so different from my own miserably thin, lank locks. I suppose she does seem quite a natural sort, her attractiveness rather effortless and without obvious enhancement. Of course, Joan has always been rather fond of her, even if she has always expressed concern that their attachment is really quite perplexing. Martin, always such an introvert, so academic, so single-minded in his pursuit of medicine. Of course, I can see already that Louisa is a pleasant young thing, on reflection possibly more gracious to me than I deserve, but what on earth they find to talk about is really rather baffling.
By the time Martin appears, utterly immaculate and as formidable as I've ever seen him, I'm sitting at the table, flipping through The Guardian, having drunk at least half my tea. He nods at me and says my name in a brisk, undemonstrative sort of way. He is indeed an Ellingham and I allow myself a gentle smirk. My father dressed formally for every sort of occasion and now it seems his grandson is just as decorous in his attire. Admittedly, he does cut rather a dashing figure; an expensive tailor a necessity, apparently, for most of the high-flying young surgeons I encounter these days. Of course I approve; one can't help but admire any young man blessed with a strong sense of sartorial style. And, oddly then, I think of Izzy; his ill-fitting corduroy jackets, his baggy trousers and that ubiquitous bow tie.
Behind Martin, the girl hovers hesitantly. Judging by her anxious, rather wide-eyed expression, flushing my nephew from his hiding place has demanded the use of all of her wiles.
"Hello and all that." I reply, languorously.
"Yes…Are you well?" He says, more gently, relaxing his pugnacious expression somewhat as we move into clearly more comfortable territory. "Auntie Joan said you were having foot trouble…I believe you were being measured for orthotics?"
"Aaah." I sigh, glancing up at him sheepishly. "That may have been a small ruse, intended to stem the flow of her home spun, hand-knitted woollen socks. I do admire her industriousness, and I know it's the thought that counts but, really,I've enough pairs now to last me til I'm dead!"
He frowns, apparently more disappointed by the loss of an opportunity for diagnosis, than the petty deceptiveness of his aunt. "I see." Is all he says.
I take a another sip of my tea, and he continues to stand there, typically silent. As I appraise him over my cup, his expression provokes rather odd sensation. In many ways, this strapping young man, looming over me, is nothing like that fair haired little lad I knew. But I've seen this side of him before you understand; those grim Sunday dinners around my mother's table, and little Martin, attempting to remain unseen, and glancing up in terror whenever he was addressed directly. I'm ashamed to say, having been so self-absorbed back then, time spent in his company was infrequent and rather far between. At my father's funeral, I'd then been rather shocked; expecting the brilliant child with innocent eyes and the infectious giggle, only to be gravely disappointed. For it was apparent that he'd been replaced, by a silent, unsmiling boy in a grey Prep School uniform; taciturn, wary and, as I came to realise, emotionally detached. Of course, it didn't take me long to perceive the reason. But, while it was obvious to me at least that Margaret was a terrible mother, I'm not sure my form was much better as an aunt.
"Martin, actually, why don't you sit down?" The girl says, stepping forward, and laying her hand upon his arm. "Would you like another espresso? I don't know about you but it feels like the one I had at lunchtime didn't even touch the sides…"
He turns his head and glances at her. Somewhere in that tangle of ferocious scowl and haughty gaze, a flicker of something passes across his face. We're trained to notice things like that; in amongst the bluster and subterfuge and lack of self-awareness, there are split seconds of openness provided by our patients, the almost imperceptible physical manifestations that lead us toward the truth. And I saw it then, in Martin; a softness, a hint of approval and, dare I say it, a glimpse of gratitude. He's like an elementary case study, Body Language 101; it's text book how his posture relaxes and he clears his throat, before wordlessly pulling out a chair. Interesting, perhaps she's cleverer than I give her credit for, this youthful dryad who calls herself Louiserr. Minutes later, she places a tiny cup in front of him and, as she slips away, I notice that her hands are entirely empty, having neglected to prepare any refreshments for herself.
"She seems a sweet girl." I say quietly, when I hope she is out of earshot.
"Mmm." He grunts, glowering into his espresso. Of course I could possibly be imagining it but his ears do seem suddenly rather pink.
"You know, the size of that cup makes you look like a guest at a dolly's tea party…" I tell him. "What do they hold, a thimbleful?"
"A double shot. Two fluid ounces." He replies crisply, without a hint of levity.
"Right." I sigh, starting to realise that this afternoon might be a very long one.
Leaning back, I fix him with a conciliatory look. "Martin, just a thought, but what do you say to discussing some of the family issues before your friend Chris arrives?"
He raises an eyebrow at me.
"What is there to discuss?"
"You tell me…but if I know your parents, and I think I do, I'm pretty sure what I've heard is only heard the tip of the iceberg…"
"If you've come all this way to discuss my parents, then I fear you've had a wasted journey." He growls, lifting his chin rather haughtily and replacing his cup on the saucer.
My mouth twists, and I gaze back at him contemplatively. "Tell me Martin, is this simply a case of avoidance or another, more serious maladaptive coping strategy?"
"Neither." He replies gruffly, and his voice is suddenly colder. "Actually, Ruth, I'd say it was more a case of my private concerns being nobody else's business…"
"Right-o." I answer wearily and I stand up. "Have it your way."
I pick up my mug and walk toward the kitchen, a gleaming and aseptic edifice, clinical in its cleanliness. It almost seems a shame to sully the highly polished sink with my grubby piece of lipstick-stained crockery but I suspect leaving Martin with plenty of things to do later might be really what he needs. Besides, I'm sure he's just the type to rearrange the dishwasher if he feels it hasn't been loaded to his exacting specifications. Patting him on the shoulder as I pass, I ask him cheerfully for directions to the loo.
The girl is sitting on the enormous Chesterfield, her legs folded up beneath her oversized jumper, her arms around her knees. As I pass, our glances meet and I note that her expression is thoughtful, even apprehensive, and that once more she seems intent on punishing her lower lip. In a moment of frustration, wordlessly and without thinking, I roll my eyes; an action that, seconds later before the vanity mirror, makes me wonder if I've been disloyal to my nephew, or acted out of turn. It occurs to me that Martin, as private as he is, might simply not have wanted that slip of a girl involved in any of this. It wouldn't be unexpected to discover their relationship is a lot more casual than that.
But as soon as I am back in the hall, padding along softly in my stocking feet, I'm aware of a change in his silhouette. I pause, noticing that, while he's still sitting where I left him, the girl is now standing behind him, her arms draped over his shoulders, her hands clasped together on his chest. Knowing him as I do, I can't imagine he's keen on a public display of affection. His obvious horror when I happened upon them in Kensington Park clearly attested to that. I take a few steps forward and loudly clear my throat but neither of them seem to notice. With their heads so close together, it appears for all the world as if she is whispering in his ear. I pause with one hand on my chair and, reluctantly, she pushes herself upright. Martin glances across at me thoughtfully, as her hands linger on his lapels.
"Aunt Ruth." He says stiffly, inclining his head just enough so that he can both talk to me and, surreptitiously, watch her walk away. "Perhaps I was somewhat…umm…abrupt…Your suggestion that we discuss the situation with my parents was a reasonable one and I…I…"
I wave my hand dismissively. "Oh you needn't explain." I tell him. "But if you feel up to summarising my brother's part in all this, I really am all ears…"
Pleasingly, the girl Louisa, shows welcome tact, leaving us to discuss family matters with admirable discretion. I do note her anxious backward glance, however, as she disappears off down the hall. With her own family situation apparently rather complicated and her father a regular guest of Her Majesty, perhaps she has a degree of empathy for the situation in which Martin finds himself. And, really, credit where credit is due, whatever she said to him seems to have had an encouraging affect. While not exactly garrulous now, my nephew is managing to sketch a rather appalling set of circumstances, while maintaining his dignity and aplomb. Occasionally he pauses, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. Then, touching his tie, he clears his throat, carrying on from where he left off.
It's not an auspicious tale and I listen, and I observe; sickened but, sadly, unsurprised. The truth is, there's the most bitter sense of inevitability about all this and that's what really has got under my skin. He was such a clever little boy, so sensitive and yet so trusting, and really rather sweet. Unfortunately, after my father died, any self restraint ever shown by Martin's parents disappeared forever. And, I mean, Joan did her best but once Christopher put the kibosh on any further holidays in Cornwall, she was so far away that she too was utterly powerless. Of course, Martin had another aunt, one that lived not so far away from him in London. But where was she when this emotional neglect was being inflicted? What on earth did she do by way of intervention to help the little boy? The answer to that, of course, is nothing; too jolly focused on her career, and getting published; every spare ounce of energy and time spent pursuing a protracted affair with a married man.
Oh yes, there's no escaping my part in all of this. I, who knew what Margaret was capable of. I, who recognised the dangerous egomania of my spineless younger brother. The truth is, I was aware of the damage they were inflicting on an innocent child and yet I did absolutely nothing to intervene. Yet, cognisant that he had a child of his own, I'd rather painfully called it off with Izzy. A terrible shame I didn't extend that consideration to my very own flesh and blood.
The doorbell sounds downstairs and Martin glances at his watch. "Forty five minutes late." He growls, his tone heavy with disapproval.
I reach over and pat his forearm. "He's got your best interests at heart Martin, you'd do well to hear him out…"
"Yes." He replies resignedly, waiting for less than a heartbeat before withdrawing his arm, pushing his chair back and leaping athletically to his feet. "You're not the first person to point that out today…"
"I'll let him in!" I hear Louisa call out as she suddenly reappears, and Martin's attention is elsewhere instantly, watching her intently, listening with knotted brows as she laughs and says something unintelligible into the intercom.
"He's coming up." She adds somewhat pointlessly, flashing a brief yet rather dazzling smile in our general direction as she wrestles with the deadlock on the enormous, heavy door.
Martin's scrutiny doesn't waver for even a second, in fact he seems almost incapable of looking away. Of course I'm not entirely unfamiliar with his level of intensity. I'm aware how single-mindedly he can focus; even as a child he had quite startling powers of concentration. When he was very young, Grey's Anatomy would keep him occupied for hours, and I recall how he would sit frowning at the chessboard interminably before a sudden swish of his hand and a shrill little exclamation of Checkmate Aunt Ruth! For much of his childhood, he was simply invisible, even when seated with us at an enormous dining table, alongside me, yet somehow so very far apart. But I do recall how his head would fly up when the conversation turned to medicine. Bright-eyed and enraptured, he would follow the conversation around the room, listening intently but never speaking; like a thin, silent, boy-shaped sponge.
My recent acquaintance bounces into the room, a slightly disreputable Mac draped over one arm, cheeks as pink and shiny as a Gala apple, a carry bag in each hand. A battered briefcase clatters to the floor and such an interesting interaction follows his arrival. It really is a glimpse of a rather fascinating dynamic: Chris embraces a reluctant Louisa, to the point at which she is clearly quite uncomfortable. Martin, of course, is unimpressed, his stare simply Arctic in its coldness. While he visibly stiffens, his eyes narrowing and his upper lip twisting into a sneer, his old chum seems really quite oblivious. Oh dear, how tiresome that Chris should have a crush on the girl, and what a bore that he takes no pains to hide it. Her awkwardness is testament to the fact his affection is not requited. That and the helpless, apologetic look she shoots at Martin over Chris's sloping shoulders.
In a way, it's a great shame that Chris is so relatively inexperienced. He's clearly a loyal friend and, with the corners knocked off him, he has the makings of a diplomat but bringing three bottles of Shiraz to what is effectively a Council of War has caused Martin now to have conniptions. Fortunately, we seem to have another, rather surprising mediator in our midst. The girl, Louisa, who sweeps the offending bottles from sight and sits Chris down, distracting him by enquiring if he's hungry, returning swiftly with a plate piled high with beans on toast, and a steaming mug of tea. Martin's expression, of course, is priceless, his silence fastidious and disapproving, but her management of them both somehow maintains the fragile peace. While Chris and I make small talk, she clears his empty plate and I note that Martin, the slightly more besotted of her admirers, stares after her retreating figure, as she quietly removes herself again.
While I acknowledge my father was a stubborn man, some of his success in the war, you understand was due to never taking no for an answer. Outside of the hospital environment he was haughty and proud but I believe, despite his prowess as a pioneering surgeon, with patients especially he was seemingly quite pleasant. I never saw that side of course, my share of him was the hectoring father, wedded to his Edwardian principles; an authoritarian, devoted to surgery and consistently absent. Disconcerting to recognise so much of him; for Henry Ellingham's pride, his stubbornness and, most especially, his absolute devotion to his profession, to still be with us in the person of his only grandchild. Clearly his antecedents have been a lesson to Martin, I think to myself, and he, too, has the talent and sheer bloody-mindedness to make his way in life.
Chris flips open his briefcase with a flourish and it's clear immediately that he has done his homework, cajoling Clinical Directors, Department Heads, and Deans of Medicine, possibly even backing them into corners. He has turned over rocks and emptied out filing cabinets, examined budgets and added up columns, but what he has arrived at is, sadly, a rather abbreviated list. He retrieves a biro from the collection in his shirt pocket and begins, thoughtfully, to chew on the end. Martin looks at him with thunderous disapproval. I imagine he is itching to deliver a lecture on the spread of rotavirus and influenza, scarcely managing to keep himself in check.
"Well, it really is a right old mess you've got yourself into." Chris says, with a painful attempt at jocularity. "It was actually quite hard to know where to even start…"
Martin sits back and folds his arms ominously. "For the record, I didn't ask that you should start at all. I'm quite capable of…"
I raise my hand and glance at him sharply. "This situation has not come about because we feel you're incapable of anything Martin. Let me make that clear from the start. But I usually find three heads are better than one. So, let's put emotion to one side, shall we, and focus on getting you back into theatre where you belong…"
He opens his mouth, and closes it again. "N-yes" he says eventually, his chin on his tie, as he glances at me warily from beneath his knotted brow.
Chris peers around the table. How he can see anything through the lenses of those glasses is a miracle to me. They resemble the remnants of a cheeseboard after a select committee lunch.
"Well," he says carefully. "I want to start off by saying that I could have found you any number of posts nationally but I thought it safe to assume you're still determined to stay in London?"
"You know the answer to that." Martin replies curtly and I feel my shoulders slumping. Talk about a hostile witness, I've observed serial killers more cooperative with authority.
But Chris carries on regardless, his tone alternating between the grave and the incredulous. Clearly fluent in management doublespeak, with one hand he gives and, with the other, he takes it away. Poor Martin, now apparently determined to be stoic, suffering encouragement and flattery from his friend one minute, excuses and disappointment the next. A glance at his stony expression and one gets a sense of just how excruciating this is for him. Nevertheless, he is behaving himself and, eventually, we come to the crux of the matter; it seems that the brilliant vascular specialist has only the three alternatives.
Firstly, he could stay at Imperial though, confidentially, Chris has heard that someone called Zalman is off to Cedars Mt Sinai, and the unfortunate Sholto is unlikely to survive an upcoming purge.
"Blood on his hands, so to speak." Chris says and pulls a face. "That's why my advice is to get out as soon as you can and not be around for the inevitable fallout. The word is, Judy Phillips is being headhunted from Kings, with a mandate to clean the faculty out from top to bottom. It won't do you any good to be associated with that, Martin…"
Martin frowns. "I know Judy." He says, with a hint of optimism.
"We both know Judy." Chris interrupts. "But let her sort the place out and, when she has, that's when you make overtures about returning. Right now, any senior role there is a poison chalice…do you understand?"
Martin won't look at either of us of course. Instead, he scrawls something on his notepad in emphatic capitals and swears exasperatedly under his breath. Oh dear, such truculence, so often the resort of the frustrated teenager. Chris glances at him over the top of his glasses, his expression one of paternal exasperation. For a moment there is a brittle silence, and then he begins to speak again, his voice brightening as he outlines a consultant's position, at St John's, one of the more fashionable London hospitals. My ears prick up. This definitely sounds more promising.
"It's a small team at present," Chris says. "But they're falling over themselves to have surgeon of your calibre come on board. There's definite potential there…"
"A small team?" Martin interjects, making no attempt to hide his scorn. "What was it at last count? A timid registrar who's failed his Royal College exam twice, and a consultant who spends most of his time stripping aristocratic varicose veins in Harley Street? No thank you."
"Say what you like, they're one of the few to have the budget. They want to expand AND they've got the full weight of the Trust behind them…"
Martin folds his arms again. "Have they now? Good for them."
Chris gazes at him contemplatively, clicking the too of his biro up and down repeatedly. "Actually, Mart, I suppose I should ask…have you given any thought to establishing your own private practice? It might…"
"Good God, no. Now can we please get on with it? I've actually got better things to do with my afternoon…"
"Martin!" I cry out in horror. Of course I had anticipated that he wouldn't cope well with the discussion but, even so, such pointed rudeness is completely uncalled for.
Chris reaches across and pats my hand reassuringly. "It's fine. Martin's right. Let's just keep moving, shall we?"
He clears his throat and shuffles the papers in front of him. I catch Martin's eye and hope he notes my disapproval, but he returns my stare coolly, almost arrogantly. I very much hate to say it, but it does seem as if he inherited something from his father and it wasn't the cleft in the chin.
"Now, this is an interesting proposition, I've a feeling it might be more up your alley." Chris starts again, his voice rising hopefully. "Toby Linklater at Thomas' wants to build a specialised trauma team, and I tell you Mart, his eyes lit up when I mentioned your name."
"I bet they did." Martin says tersely.
To Chris' credit, he studiously ignores the interruption, intent on carrying on, but I have a question and, feeling suddenly as if I'm too far removed from physical medicine, I tentatively raise my hand.
"Chris," I say. "What exactly do you mean by a trauma team? They have a casualty ward already, don't they? I'm not sure I understand the difference."
"Yes, Ruth, they do." He replies. "But Toby wants a bigger one, a centre of excellence if you will, one that sees certain situations, certain sorts of injuries London-wide, directed automatically to Thomas'…"
"Oh, I see." I say, twisting my jaw thoughtfully. "A specialist team of vascular, Orthopaedics, plastic surgery, that sort of thing, on call and dealing with traumatic injuries, complicated presentations, and the like? Would that interest you, Martin? It certainly sounds demanding and exhausting enough, even for you…"
"No." says Martin sharply, and I notice that his teeth are clenched.
Defeated, Chris tosses his pen down onto his outspread reams of paper. "Do you mind telling me why? Because, you know, I've spent days on this Martin. Days! And from where I'm sitting, it's pretty bloody aggravating just to have you dismiss everything out of hand. You do not have endless choices, you know budgets are being slashed across the NHS, you know that everyone's being asked to make cutbacks. So it strikes me, Martin, perhaps you just need a bloody reality check!"
"I am not interested in any role at Thomas'. Nor will I ever be!" Martin growls back at him and it sounds more like a threat than a statement. He really is being quite bloody about this and I'm starting to feel rather disappointed at the petulance in his response. Chris is right, his opportunities in the short term really are quite limited. For the first time, I am rather worried about Martin's career.
"I've had enough of this." He adds angrily, and stands up, pushing his chair out of the way. It clatters loudly on the flooring. Instantly, Chris leaps to his feet and, as he does so, he sends his tumbler of water flying, spilling its contents across his paperwork before rolling off the edge of the table and shattering loudly on the floor. For a second, everything is still, until all around me there are raised, excited voices: Chris apologising vociferously, Louisa appearing from nowhere, anxious to know exactly what has happened. And Martin, loudest of all, warning her of broken glass, shouting at her to stay where she is while he disappears into the utility room to fetch a brush and dustpan. I urge Chris to pass me a tea towel, attempting frantically to soak up the spillage while he watches on, his hands on his head as he vents his frustration at poor Louisa.
"Do you think he has any idea how difficult this has been?" Chris squeaks indignantly. "Does he really think that you can resign under a cloud and then just waltz straight in to another prestigious senior role. Everyone knows that that there's been something rotten at Imperial…"
"Just hang on a minute Chris," I say, intending to rebuke him. "You and I both know Martin is completely innocent when it comes to these allegations…"
"Of course we do!" Chris replies in a strangled voice. "But that's not the bloody point, is it? Until he's in the clear, his reputation counts for very little. He needs to accept the truth and that is: he may as well be damn well starting again from scratch!"
Behind him, there is an almighty crash; Martin dropping a thick wad of newspaper onto the bench from height, and hurling the cleaning equipment down of top of that. His expression is ferocious, his eyes glittering as he shoots a look of pure venom at his clumsy, hapless friend. And then he is gone, marching away down the hall and disappearing from view, leaving only a tangible, uncomfortable fug behind him. Sighing, Chris looks helplessly from me to Louisa, and back again, and it's evident he's feeling rather green now around the gills.
"That's that then…" He says, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets.
"Perhaps he just needs some time to think about it." Louisa murmurs, and she gives a hopeful smile. "I'll ummm…I'll just give him a minute and then I'll go and talk to him."
"Good luck!" Chris says despondently. "I doubt even you can make him see sense, Louisa. Honestly the…the…the arrogance of the man. Un-bloody-believable. All the hours I've spent on this and he can barely give me the time of day…"
Louisa turns and looks at him. "Chris, you do know this isn't personal, don't you? I mean, you've been friends for a long time, you of all people must understand how…well, just how difficult this is for him. Martin is an honourable man…he's scrupulously honest…some might say maybe a bit too honest…he's absolutely done nothing wrong and suddenly his career's turned into a nightmare…."
"And that's exactly what I'm trying to sort out. Or at least I was. To be honest, I feel like I've completely wasted my time…"
"Chris, I appreciate everything you've done, and Martin does too, but he's been devastated by this, he really has…"
I watch as he shrugs, his whole demeanour now one of aggravated despair. Louisa places her hand briefly on his upper arm and shoots him a look of sympathy, accompanied by a nervous little grimace.
"P'raps I'll go and check he's okay…." She murmurs, to no one in particular and, glancing downwards, at her feet, she tiptoes carefully away.
Without comment I stoop to sweep up the glass. I am really furious with my brother. Honestly, nothing Margaret might ever do could surprise me but Christopher stooping this low is the most disgraceful sort of familial behaviour and I have the strongest suspicion that there's more to his actions than currently meets the eye. As Chris throws himself down in his chair, I wrap the glass in thick layers of paper, folding it like a packet of cod and chips, and placing it gingerly on the counter. Behind me, muttering bitterly under his breath, Chris attempts to rescue his water-soaked documents.
"He's bloody lucky to have her." He says suddenly and now his tone is pugnacious, even resentful. "It's about time someone pointed that out to him too."
"Maybe." I reply carefully. "But probably best if we stay impartial on that front Chris, don't you think? The situation really is complicated enough as it is."
He busies himself with blowing furiously on his water-soaked papers, shaking them as if they were Polaroids, to little effect. While it is the height of entertainment, I find myself wandering away, over toward the French doors to gaze down on the street below. It is rather a marvellous flat, more spacious and in a better location than his first foray into home ownership, a step I had rather a secret hand in. I remember when Martin first approached me about investing Henry's legacy, keen to defy his father's insistence that he buy shares in British Aerospace, Pan Am and Baring's Bank. You've got jolly good instincts, I'd been at pains to reassure him, you've just got to learn to trust yourself.
Chris has separated his documents into low, damp stacks and it seems to me the damage is far from catastrophic. I suspect he's suffering merely from wounded pride as he huffs and preens and mutters. Louisa returns, and she sits down at the table, slipping into Martin's place, and appearing calm and surprisingly composed. How old can she be, I wonder? I suppose in her case life experience has clearly made her mature beyond her years. She smiles at me, inhaling deeply, and I notice that her irises really are a striking shade of green.
"Can I say something please?" She says, and Chris looks up, surprised.
"Of course…" He replies, and suddenly his eyes are shining, and his cheeks are aglow.
"Well, the thing is…Martin feels it's his prerogative to say no to any of the positions you've presented, without having to justify his reasons why…"
"Well that's just brilliant, thank you Louisa, very edifying indeed." Chris says, and now it's his turn to be churlish. "I'll see myself out…"
"Perhaps we should just let Louisa finish…" I point out mildly.
She smiles at me. "Thank you Ruth. I just wanted to say that, while I understand Martin's point completely, I've suggested that, with all the time you've both spent trying to sort things out…I don't know…just that perhaps it would be nice if he sort of explained his feelings a little more, just so that you both understood…"
"Explain his feelings?" Chris interrupts scornfully. "Is hell about to freeze over?"
But we are interrupted; Martin's return is purposeful and brisk, his chin is raised and his shoulders are back, his posture that of a regimental sergeant-major with a few orders of his own to give. He stands beside Louisa, and gazes down his nose at us, assuming the expression of a haughty, rather disappointed Oxford Don, about to send us all down. Glancing at his watch, he confidently clears his throat.
"While your labours on my behalf are appreciated, I need to make one thing crystal clear. Even on pain of death I would resist employment at St Thomas' Hospital. And, if you must know the reasons for my rejection of your suggestion, need I point out to you my mother's long association with that very institution?"
Chris puts his head in his hands, and emits a long, shuddering sigh.
"She HAD an association, Mart. She no longer does. I mean, for God's sake, give me some credit, of course I made enquiries on that front. And, no offence, but Toby really couldn't care less about some moth-eaten, old matron and her tedious morning teas. He wants a crack team, he wants the best in the business…"
"I beg your pardon?" Martin interrupts, and his mouth twists into an ugly, incredulous sneer. "He wants a crack team, and yet he appoints Johnny Bamford as his Plastic Surgery Registrar? The man's an imbecile…They both are."
The name Bamford is somehow familiar to me though I'm not really in the habit of associating with Plastic Surgeons. It clearly means something to Louisa though; she turns sharply to look up at him, the colour draining from her face. A glance passes between them, the faintest hint of reassurance in her part, a veiled acknowledgment on his. As I observe this non-verbal synchrony, this obvious behavioural attunement, both clear signs of a secure dyadic coupling, I'm surprised to feel a significant degree of relief. For so long I'd been concerned about Martin's solitary lifestyle, yet it appears he has now found something in Louisa that he needs. And I can't help but smile to myself too, as his hand shifts from down at his side to the back of her chair, now rather boldly close to her arm.
Chris sits up, and folds his arms across his chest, raising his eyebrows as he addresses Martin directly.
"And St John's?" He asks evenly. "Mart, please tell me you'll think about it."
The room is in silence, the only sound the metronomic tick of a distant clock. With the skill of an actor holding our attention on a stage, Martin commands the room with his dramatic pause. Only an Ellingham could be left clutching at straws but still behave as if he were the Monarch of the Glen, the alpha male; indomitable, unflinching, and, undeniably, in charge.
"I might." He says pointedly, and his hand slips onto Louisa's shoulder. "If only we might have an evening without being disturbed."
To my surprise, Chris let's out an amused little chortle, and he's clearly not affronted in any way; secure in himself, and apparently not subject to the usual self-conscious emotions such as shame, guilt, and pride.
"Okay, Mart, you win…" he says cheerfully, fumbling with his papers, and attempting to collate them with rather a lot of difficulty. "We will talk during the week though, I must insist on that…"
"Thank you so much Chris." Louisa interrupts breathlessly. "Hopefully, we can catch up again soon? And with Helen again at some point, yeah?"
And then, in a flurry of embraces, our little meeting is at an end. We will reconvene again of course, and I've an inkling, that next time, the floor will be all mine. Not standing on ceremony, Martin bids his friend a short sharp farewell, accepting his handshake disinterestedly, apparently more concerned with depositing the broken glass into the bin. Gathering up his possessions, Chris makes it as far as the door until Louisa, exclaiming sharply, runs back to the kitchen and retrieves his surfeit of grog. She's a shrewd one, this girl, I think, as she clanks her way along the hallway, holding out the bags of bottles at arm's length, so they hang between them like a makeshift barrier. Laden once more and smiling broadly, he is suddenly gone, leaving Louisa and I standing, aimlessly, beside the door.
"I'll just use the loo if you don't mind, and then perhaps I can prevail upon you to call me a taxi?" I say, and her brow knots into a frown.
"Please don't feel like you have to rush away. Honestly, I'm sure Martin didn't mean to sound rude, it's just that he's had such a lot of stuff happening and, you know, he just felt cornered…"
She is quite a kind soul, I suspect, eager that I'm not upset, nor have I been offended. Perhaps she's keener to take on the role of apologist for my nephew, than I'd imagined; smoothing the ruffled feathers we Ellinghams leave inevitably in our wake. Judging by the look she gives him as he marches toward us, Louisa is already committed to such a thankless task, even though I suspect she's well aware she'll have her work cut out. Ah well, the heterogamy hypothesis in all its misguided splendour, but I do hope for both their sakes that they find something they have in common. I could become quite fond of her if her apparent interest in Martin is genuine.
"Ruth, would you care to join us for dinner?" Martin says briskly. "I've some fresh Whiting in the fridge…"
"You know, I really would like to." I say, with a wry smile. "However, I really must get a wriggle on if I'm going to catch that plane…"
"What plane?" He says and he frowns at me.
"Oh, didn't I mention it?" I say mildly, as I reach down to retrieve my shoes. "It's something that I'm rather looking forward to actually. ..I'm off to Lisbon in the morning."