Decoration

Aunt Joan had delivered a battered carton two days later at noon, telling him it contained 'a few mementos.' "Thought you and Louisa might like a head start," she told him. "These were up in the attic."

"For what? Of what?" he asked her.

"Holidays, Marty. Remember?"

He sighed. "I… Louisa no doubt… will like having them, or it. Whatever it is."

Joan smiled. "Oh come on, Martin! Don't be such a grump!"

He checked his watch. "Joan, the Christmas Light thing was just the other night and surgery is now being inundated with coughs and colds. I can't see that a village holiday gathering has done anyone any good!"

Joan shook her head at him. Just like his father. "Do you remember the Christmas you spent down here?"

I screwed up his face. "Sort of. How old was I?"

"Eight," Joan said. "Just eight years old, Marty. It was a lovely time." Then her face went dark. "My lovely brother and his witchy wife went to Lisbon. Couldn't be bothered with staying in country for Christmas." Her face softened. "But we were so very happy to have you those ten days."

Martin suddenly got a flash of a memory. "It snowed."

"Yes! Yes, Marty! It snowed that year! Pretty rare in these parts. You and your Uncle Phil built a snowman." She grinned. "Phil talked about that for years." She chuckled then crossed the room to touch Martin's arm. "He loved you so much. You were the son he never had."

Martin started to cough, as he covered his mouth and backed away from her. "Sorry, Joan, I've been getting coughed on all morning, so you'd better go! God knows what I might be picking up." His throat felt very acidic, more of reflux than a simple coughing spell.

Joan nodded. "Oh, by the way, Marty, I received your gift hamper yesterday. Fortnum & Mason always do a nice job."

Martin grinned. "Yes," he cleared his throat, "I didn't know what to send you."

"Same as always," she replied. "Such delicious treats in that hamper, though. Oh and in this carton," she tapped the box she'd carried in, "is a tin of Cornish scones. Made them this morning."

Martin recalled eating her scones, hot from the oven. "Thank you, now… I'd better get on. Patients coming."

Joan headed for the door, buttoning up her coat. "Colder today."

Martin noticed that her coat was worn at the elbows and one button was missing. He filed that for future reference. "Yes."

Joan paused at the door. "That first day you were here, right after moving to the village, you drove up to the farm and there you were after all those years. Little Marty."

He nodded. "I'd just been made the new GP."

She frowned. "And it was an adjustment for you, but I'm so glad that you stayed." She looked around the spic-and-span kitchen. "And here you are now with a wife and a baby coming along."

Martin felt another cough coming, so he took out his handkerchief and covered his mouth, as he coughed again and felt more acid come up his gullet.

She opened the kitchen door to leave. "Come on, Buddy," Joan said to her dog who was waiting outside. "Let's go to the co-op market."

"Don't let that dog in here!" he commanded her.

Joan shook her head. "Buddy reminds a lot of that stray that used to follow you around, you know."

Martin shook his head, for that animal in the past was merely a dim memory.

"Glad you stayed, Marty," Joan repeated. "For your sake and Louisa's."

After she had gone away, he opened the carton and lifted out a round metal tin. He could smell the scent of the baked goods even though the lid was on tightly.

Bert and Al delivered a Christmas Tree late that afternoon evening, and Martin's wallet smarted from the "special price." Louisa rapidly erected it, with his help, on an old round table in the corner, next to the fireplace. It stood about three-and-a-half feet tall but was covered with branches with tiny green needles all over.

She stood there stroking the branches. "So soft. Feel it."

"I have; I did."

Louisa laid out her few family ornaments on the table and gazed fondly upon them.

"Oh, Louisa, Joan brought this over at lunch," he told her, presenting the pasteboard carton to her.

"What's this?"

"She said it was in her attic."

Curious, Louisa lifted the lid. "Oh look. Christmas ornaments. And strings of lights!" She started lifting them out. "A chip log, Celtic cross, St. Pirran's Flag, tiny pastie made of baked clay, banded baubles, and tiny blown glass fishing floats. Oh look, a miniature lobster trap! So cute! So lovely…"

Martin stared down at the items, finally picking up the Celtic cross. It was carved from wood and had been varnished. "Hm."

"Hm?"

"I think… I think that my Uncle Phil carved that."

Smiling, Louisa took his arm. "Memories."

Martin remembered standing at his front window the day; the day he had decided to leave Portwenn after just a few months; a horrible time. He had stared across the harbor, wondering where he would go? He'd made a mess of his time in Portwenn, and what was worse, everyone knew it. Numbly, he stood there, feeling the ache of his broken nose, and the psychic sting of another failure. Surgery was dead and gone for him but now he'd be giving on a GP spot? He ought to be able to deal with a simple GP position, right?

Granted it was taking temperatures, giving vaccines, treating coughs and croup, and in the rare cases dealing with an old man and a young man both of whom had grown breasts. Both treated to that unusual condition by the woman they'd both been shagging, who used far too much eostrogen cream to replace her body's natural hormone levels.

Peter Cronk had needed a doctor, a surgeon actually in the ambulance. The boy was bleeding out internally and as he had watched the blood pressure continue to fall, Louisa had turned to him with panic on her face. "Martin!" she had yelled, calling for him to do something. That had broken his frozen state. He'd performed the emergency surgery out of duty, his calling and with his skills he'd pulled it off, and he hadn't even thrown up.

Still, Portwenn was a disaster. Dr. Sims records were sketchy and after a flood nearly destroyed, the villagers didn't like or trust him, his receptionist was a total dolt along with most of the residents. But… but… there was this teacher. The pull of Louisa and any possible connection with her had not kept him there. It was what Bert said which had struck home. "The way I see it, is you need patients, and we need a doc, and we don't have to love another, do we?"

Love – a word he didn't understand very well. Back in the present he turned his head a fraction to look at Louisa. She was glowing, ecstatic really, as she fingered the antique ornaments on the table. Finally she put her head on his shoulder. "Our first Christmas."

Storge, Philia, Agape and Eros; the four kinds of love he'd been told about in Psychology. Storge, love between family members. Philia, love of your neighbor. Agape, love of God for mankind. Finally there was Eros, romantic love. He put his arm around her. "Next year there will be three of us," he murmured into her hair.

She smiled at him. "Hope so."

He found himself looking at her bare earlobes. He could see the mark of a piercing, but she rarely wore earrings. She needed something, a necklace perhaps. Another thing to file away.

He cleared his throat. "I noticed that Joan could use a new winter coat."

Louisa replied, "I've been wondering what to buy her as a gift. We ought to go into Wadebridge or Truro to shop."

"I have patients on Saturday morning, but we could go that afternoon."

"Good," she hugged him. "Now let's get this tree finished. Nicely decorated."

Martin gazed at her neck once more. Yes, he thought, it needs decoration.

"Did you decorate for Christmas with your parents?" she asked.

"Um, no. The maids did that."

Louisa looked at him with tenderness and sadness for him. "Oh," she said, then she kissed his cheek.

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