Chapter 16: See Chapter 1 disclaimer

Saturday came too rapidly for Martin. He was filled with both dread and excitement about his meeting with Susanne Matlock. More than anything, he wanted to get it over with. Still, he felt he needed this objective perspective on his parents' delinquency regarding his upbringing and to do that, he knew he'd have to range far outside of his comfort zone.

Louisa drove him to Bodmin Parkway rail station in her new car, gave him a hug, and wished him luck. Martin took his overnight bag and boarded a first-class railcar to London. The ride was expected to take about four and a half hours, after which he'd take a cab to Mrs. Matlock's. He had taken an early train to give himself extra time in case the train was late. He wasn't expected at her home until 15:30 and he wanted to be punctual but not early.

Martin removed his overcoat, folded it neatly, and stowed it in the rack over his head with his bag. He had brought several journals to read as well as a writing pad to take notes. He planned to write down as many of his thoughts as he could after his conversation with her. He took a window seat in a row without a table to limit the possibility he'd have to speak to anyone else. He brought a grilled chicken and cheddar sandwich and an apple for lunch, as well as a few bottles of water to stay hydrated.

A passenger sat in the row across the aisle from him, a man in a lined trench coat who looked a bit frazzled. He eyed Martin's suit and assumed he was a fellow Londoner. "One can't wait to get back to the Big Smoke after this rural rubbish, right?"

Oh god. "I live here," said Martin, hoping that would put an end to things.

"Really?! What on earth would make one want to do that?" asked the man.

None of your business. "My family is here," Martin replied tersely, clearly not encouraging more conversation.

"Well, you couldn't pay me to live down here. All these narrow roads with the hedgerows and the need to back up to let other cars pass. Not to mention the accents. I mean, really, it's like a different language!"

You can get used to anything if you are adequately motivated. "Mm," grunted Martin, returning to his reading, his frustration about to boil over.

The passenger was clearly obtuse, as he continued, "And the people! They don't leave one alone, constantly asking if one is alright."

One, one, one, what a prat! Martin glared at him. "I promise not to ask. Now stop talking. I have reading to do."

That got through. The man harrumphed, retrieved his overcoat, and moved halfway up the car.

Finally.

Martin read some of the articles discussing research on immunotherapy for cancer and new interventions for heart disease. He strolled the aisles of the railcar to prevent deep vein thromboses. At Taunton, he acquired a seat mate who was taciturn and promptly fell asleep, preventing further strolls, so he raised his heels up and down regularly to keep his blood flowing.

At noon, he ate his lunch and had his second bottle of water, having drained the first while reading. The motion of the train combined with the lack of stimulation, rise of melatonin and serotonin and increased blood flow to the digestive system had their usual effect, and he nodded off until shortly before arriving at London station. Fortunately, he had enough time to wake up, drink some more water, and pack up his things before needing to leave the train. He didn't want anything to cause him more anxiety than he already felt.

Martin disembarked and found a lavatory, where he used the facilities and made sure his tie was straight, and his suit and coat hadn't accumulated any dust or debris. The nap had reduced the dark circles under his eyes from sleeping poorly during the week. He had plenty of time and the weather was tolerable, so he decided he would walk instead of taking a cab. The exercise would do him good, his bag was light, and it would ensure he arrived fully alert. He arrived at Mrs. Matlock's precisely on time, having dawdled in a local park for a few minutes to prevent an early arrival.

Martin steeled himself, pressed the bell, and Mrs. Matlock answered, dressed smartly although somewhat masculinely in what seemed to be a woman's suit over a lilac cashmere jumper. She was short and slight and looked younger than she probably was, which should be her early 80s. "Right on time, I see. Somehow that doesn't surprise me. I'm Susanne Matlock. Please call me Susanne." She extended her hand and Martin shook it, finding her grip strong and businesslike.

"Ah, Martin Ellingham," he replied.

Susanne then invited him in, opening the door wide for Martin and his bag. "Thank you for coming all this way, Martin. I hope you will find it worth your while and not just something to satisfy an old lady who is curious about someone she's heard about for decades."

Martin grimaced at that. "Yes. Right. Well, I'm sure it will be interesting for both of us. Our conversation was, um, not quite what I expected in either content or tone." That didn't come out right.

"Tone? I hope I didn't put you off, Martin. I know some of the things I told you might not have been easy to hear, but rest assured my intentions are good."

"Yes, well, you must be a saint. You were able to live with my mother for a long time, which is more than I could do." Why did I say that? I don't know this person at all! But she reminds me of someone, someone easy to talk to. Ruth!

Susanne said, "Why don't you take your bag upstairs to the room on the far left, get yourself settled, and come down when you are ready. Hopefully before 17:00 though, if that's alright?"

"Of course." Martin proceeded to his assigned room, unpacked his suitcase, inspected the room, all of which took about five minutes. He then visited the lavatory again, splashed his face with some water carefully, and took a long look at himself in the mirror. That took another five minutes. His dread was starting to overpower his excitement, and he felt delaying any further would only paralyze him. If he wanted this objective confirmation, he needed to face whatever Susanne had to tell him. Perhaps it would be over with soon enough that his stomach knots would untie before dinner. He proceeded downstairs and found her in a well-appointed sitting room with a steaming pot of tea plus two cups.

"I know it's a bit late for afternoon tea but would you like some?" she asked.

"Uh, no. Thank you." Martin replied. He sat on the edge of an upholstered chair, stiffly upright, legs crossed at the ankles and hands on his knees.

"Martin, it's alright. I'm not going to bite. So, do you want to go first with any questions, or do you want me to go first?" she asked.

Martin thought it likely that he would keep his composure better if he had control over the conversation to the extent possible. He was going to have to use everything he had learned from therapy and from Ruth to make it through this. "Well, ah, I'd like to explain what I meant by content and tone. I, um, did not expect anyone who knew my parents to know much about me, except what a disappointment I was to them. Nor did I expect to find someone who knew my parents well and thought poorly of them. Yet you said they talked about my achievements positively for a, ah, long time."

"Yes, Martin, at least until you left surgery and became a GP in Cornwall. If asked about you then, there would be a transitory look of disdain on your father's face which was easy to miss if you weren't extraordinarily observant. Which I am, by the way. After that, you were always 'Fine, nothing new.'" Your mother generally had a neutral expression on her face when discussing you unless she caught a clue from someone else that she should be emoting. Shallow woman," Susanne ended, accusingly.

"Right, ah, and that's an example of what I meant by tone. Other than my aunts, I hadn't known anyone who knew my parents to hold them in anything other than the highest regard. Of course, I wasn't welcome to spend much time with them after the age of six," he said, bitterly.

Susanne gave a sharp intake of breath. "That bad, was it?"

Martin simply nodded, fighting off some nausea. Susanne might be easy to talk to, but there were things that were no one else's business.

"Shall I take over then?" Susanne asked. She could see that Martin was finding it difficult to speak. Again, a nod from Martin.

"Alright. I mentioned that your parents seemed to have nothing to contribute to the conversation about you other than accomplishments as a surgeon. And yet, I did some research on you, and you apparently have a wife and children. You have a reputation throughout the NHS as being the best diagnostician in general practice as well as vascular. So, why wasn't there anything to brag about once the 'Midas Touch' was, well, untouchable? And, yes, I know about that too."

Martin was too wrought to reply and needed to pull himself together. This woman knew all those things based on, what? What she found on the INTERNET? How dare she? That made him angry enough to be able to speak. "You RESEARCHED me?" he asked.

"I should have mentioned, I was a forensic scientist before we had children." She caught the look of surprise on Martin's face. "Don't look so shocked!" Susanne chuckled. "Researching is in my nature and the Internet has been my playground since my husband died. I also lunch with several wives of the London medical elite, la di dah. You'd be surprised how well informed we are about who does what. Shall I continue?"

Gossip, trash, although as a forensic scientist... Martin replied, "Right. Um, impressive career. But intrusive. Yes, continue." He was not about to jeopardize objectively validating what Louisa and Dr. Timoney had concluded subjectively about his parents based on his input alone.

"If your parents could only appreciate your value based on your achievements and how that reflected on them, then it was possible you had been poorly treated as you were growing up and in essence bludgeoned, emotionally or physically, into being perfect. I have seen it in police reports involving high-achieving perpetrators."

Ruth had said something similar.

"Your mother came here shortly after having returned from Cornwall. She was staying in a hotel, and I saw her when I had lunch there with some mutual friends. She mentioned that she was staying there while waiting for her townhome in Portugal to sell. I offered her the use of a spare room while she waited, which I expected to last two months at most, an offer she gratefully accepted."

"And that gets us to what happened that convinced me you had been treated with disrespect. Here, let me get the item I want to give to you." Susanne got up and went to a box which had been obscured behind her chair, escaping Martin's notice.

Susanne continued. "When Margaret arrived the next day, she had her luggage and this, which she told me I could have as she had no use for it." With that, she brought out Martin's grandfather's clock.

She had no use for it. I thought she took it to sell it. So, this means that she took it purely out of spite. And despite her limited circumstances, she couldn't even be bothered to sell it. Did she hate me that much? And that's the last complete thought he had before he found himself on the floor of Susanne's parlor with his tie loosened, his top button undone, a cold cloth on his forehead, and Susanne Matlock sitting in the seat he had previously occupied.

She looked at him with compassion and some relief. "Are you better now? I had heard about this too, how you had fainted in the operating theatre. I hope you don't mind that I didn't call for help. I took the educated guess you would recover on your own."

Martin carefully sat up and cleared his throat. "Ah, no, I mean yes, um, thank you." He rose slowly, used the cloth to wipe his face, handed it to Susanne, buttoned his shirt and adjusted his tie. "Right, well. That is, um, a lot to take in." He poured a lukewarm cup of tea and drank about half of it in a few quick sips. His left elbow must have hit the ground, as it was a bit tender to the touch.

Susanne moved back to her original seat, and Martin to his. Susanne then continued as if they had not been interrupted, for which Martin was grateful. He wasn't sure how much he could take. "When I finally opened the back of the clock to wind it, I found an engraved plate inside the door with a name which I found to be your grandfather's. So, I could only conclude that Margaret had taken this from your home. After all, why would she have taken it from her townhome in Portugal through Cornwall to London if she didn't want it?"

"Yes. It was my grandfather's, and I had spent substantial time restoring it to near perfect condition. I believe it to be quite valuable, although I would never sell it," Martin explained, quietly.

"Right, so you could see how I could conclude that your parents were to blame for any rift in your relationship. I could put up with Margaret due to the tremendous debt we had to Christopher for saving our son, and I could repay that somehow by keeping her away from her son. Not for her sake, of course, but for yours."

Martin sat silently, the edges of his eyes a bit red and his face slack.

"Martin, why don't you go upstairs for a bit and then come back down for dinner at 18:30. We can continue our discussion after dinner. I need to speak with Valerie, who is doing the cooking for us anyway. I'm an independent old gal but smart enough to delegate the cooking and cleaning to others," she said, with a comforting smile.

Martin agreed, only too happy to take a break from this emotional whirlpool that he had so few skills to handle.

—ooOOoo—

Martin could not see any need for jotting down notes. He could not imagine forgetting what Susanne had said. She had seen no inkling of parental instincts in Christopher or Margaret. He was only valuable in terms of how well he burnished their reputation, and worth discarding when they felt his professional achievements would no longer give a surgeon and his wife some reflected glory. Susanne had researched him, for god's sake! She had found his personal life worthy of comment by caring parents, yet Christopher and Margaret had not. She had made the proper assumptions about his grandfather's clock and his mother's motivations in taking it. She concluded that his parents had never cared about him and were likely negligent if not abusive parents. And forensics had been her profession, so she wasn't just some old bat with a penchant for gossip!

This seemed about as objective as Martin was ever likely to get. When added to what Louisa, Dr. Timoney, Ruth, and Joan had said, he found he could believe in his head that they were likely correct. His intellect was starting to accept that his upbringing was in no way normal, and that he was lucky to have got out of it in the shape he had. His psyche, however, might never recover. That was something he felt in his soul, if there were such a thing. This doctor had no tools to heal himself.

He proceeded downstairs to join Susanne in the dining room. The aromas were promising, a blend of chicken, sage, and onion, and not unlike something Auntie Joan used to make. An inspection of the table showed a roasted chicken, cut into pieces, properly cooked through. There was a casserole dish of homemade stuffing, which had the crisped edges to prove it had been cooked in the dish and not unhygienically cooked inside the bird. There were also steamed asparagus and roasted brussels sprouts, both with a light sprinkling of what looked like parmesan cheese. Martin was relieved. He would be able to eat this meal and have every excuse to decline pudding.

Martin assisted Susanne with her chair, and seated himself to her right, as she had requested. "If you don't mind," she had said, "That's where my son would usually sit. It just would feel normal to me." As the table was quite large, the request made more sense than for Martin to sit at the other end with no one in between.

The meal was mostly silent, broken up with largely useless small talk. Martin complimented the menu choices and healthy preparation. "Is healthy eating important to you, Martin?" Susanne inquired.

"Of course. It should be important to everyone. It's one of the few things, along with sleep and exercise, that you can control about your own health," he replied.

"What about visits to your GP, is that not something you can also do?" she asked.

"The initiative to visit the GP and the willingness to follow what he or she says is certainly controlled by the individual, but it depends upon the skills of the GP and therefore is not something a person has total control over." Martin replied.

"That seems to be splitting hairs, Martin. Is that an important point to make?"

"Obviously. The GP who preceded me was appalling, his diagnoses were oftentimes incorrect, his records were imprecise if they existed at all," he replied.

"So, you are a better GP than your predecessor," Susan stated, reflecting the obvious point Martin was insinuating.

"Mm. Yes."

"Why do you think that?" she pressed.

"I have run the numbers. Each year I have compared statistics to prior one-year, five-year, and ten-year numbers for mortality, early detection of illness, survival from similar medical crises, etc. Each year they are better," Martin replied, with no bravado. He was just stating facts.

"That isn't exactly what I asked, although I can see how you could have thought that. Your answer relates to how you measured it. I want to know why you are a more skilled GP."

Martin looked at her blankly. He could not think of how to answer beyond what he'd said. Jim Sim was an appalling GP. I am not. What is the opposite of appalling? Good? Do I think I'm a good GP? I don't really think about my skill as a GP at all. As a surgeon, now, THAT was different. I could fix anything. It was just THERE for me. Confronted with a vascular problem, I could review the symptoms, diagnose the cause, surgically expose the problem, and repair it. I wasn't good. I was brilliant. How is General Practice different? There's a much wider range of symptoms to deal with, not just vascular. No one has prescreened the patients; it is up to me. Have I failed to correctly diagnose anyone? No. I cannot perform surgery full-time, but when pressed in an emergency I can perform and succeed. Not using an ability is not the same as not having it. I have more ability now than I had before. I have the diagnostic skills of a GP, and I have honed them with constant study. I know the human body because I have seen it from the inside.

"I applied myself to learning the field of General Practice with the same rigor as I applied to vascular surgery," Martin said, simply.

"So, you took that brain of yours and worked hard to have the Midas Touch in a different field of medicine, then?" she continued. She looked at Martin struggling to understand how to respond. "It's alright to say yes, Martin. Based on what I've heard of your reputation through the medical grapevine, I'd say you've earned the right. Just because your parents thought surgery was all that mattered doesn't mean everyone else feels the same. In fact, most of the surgeons I know wish you were the GP who cared for their patients before they ended up needing surgery in the first place." She chuckled, "You would make their statistics better. Their positive outcomes would likely be even higher."

Martin remained silent and took some sips of water to wash the taste of acid out of his mouth. He put his fork down. He was not sure why he was reacting this way, and continuing to eat did not seem possible. Keeping down what he had eaten was his immediate priority. Susanne sensed his discomfort and encouraged a few more sips of water. She directed her own attention to her meal to give Martin recovery time.

She was filled with anger and disgust at Christopher and Margaret Ellingham. They had so damaged their son that he could not take well-deserved satisfaction, maybe even some pride, in something they had not valued, despite its value to society in general. Once Martin seemed to have recovered, Susanne decided to turn to something potentially easier to talk about.

"Tell me about your family, Martin. I know you have a wife and two children."

"Right, well, my wife's name is Louisa. She was a schoolteacher when I met her, and she is now a child counselor. I have a son, James Henry, who is nearing 5, and a daughter, Mary Elizabeth, who is 2 and has just begun to walk."

Susanne stated, matter of factly, "You love them and are proud of them."

"Yes." It felt as if he had to squeeze that answer directly out of his heart.

"When I almost lost my son, I felt like I were dying with him. We made sure he always knew how much we loved him after that, because the future is not guaranteed."

Martin thought back on his last year, having had severe hypothermia less than two weeks ago and almost bleeding out on his Aunt Joan's old farm in the summer. He was grateful that it was not his children who had been at risk, but Susanne's counsel was still apt. The future is not guaranteed, and he should remember that.

Just when he thought he had survived the day, Susanne asked, "Why did you agree to come here, Martin? You could have easily asked me to ship Margaret's effects to you. I made no mention that what I had to give you could not be as easily sent on. You could have finished with our conversation on the phone and simply moved on, but you didn't."

"Right, well, it was partially to end the conversation quickly. I didn't think I could say no to someone who had given my mother a place to live without a great deal of explanation. I was, um, having a reaction to our conversation," Martin explained.

"Well, I am glad of it, although I'm sorry to see you struggle like that. Still, what prevented you from calling later in the week and telling me it was inconvenient? That would have been completely plausible," she followed up.

"Well, I, ah, was hoping to have objective confirmation of what I had been told, that my parents' treatment of me was not normal and that, ah, it was basically not my fault."

"And did you get the answers you were looking for?" Susanne questioned.

Martin replied quietly, "I think I have as much as I can hope in that regard. And possibly some new perspectives on my occupation."

"That is good. Martin, I'm just an old lady who is a stranger to you. But I am a mother to a son. Can I make a final suggestion?" she asked.

Oh no. "Mm."

"When you return to Portwenn, find another stranger to talk to. Not your wife. Not family. Probably a man but it doesn't have to be. Someone who maybe you know slightly, who seems as if you could have conversations like this with. Not on the topic of your parents obviously, but just someone who can give you more objectivity. Based on our conversation, please don't exclude people less intelligent than yourself, otherwise finding someone might prove impossible."

Oh god. "Mrs. Matlock, thank you for meeting with me and giving my mother a place to stay. I am grateful to get my clock back. Our conversation has been quite, ah, satisfactory." He would not make any promises. "I will consider your suggestion. And now, I believe it would be best if I retired as I have an early train, and it has been an exhausting day."

"You are welcome, Martin. I will see you for breakfast tomorrow," she replied. So now I'm Mrs. Matlock again. That poor man, in building so many walls to keep others out, he has built his own joyless prison.

At breakfast the next morning, Susanne and Martin were largely quiet, confining their conversation to the safe topic of problems commonly found in antique clockworks. Martin soon stood, shook Susanne's hand, thanked her again, and took his leave. He took a cab to the station, boarded the train, and slept the whole way back to Bodmin Parkway.

Louisa met him at the station in the Mini, having left the children with Ruth. She gave him a hug and took his hand on the way back to the car. It had been easier for him to accept public displays of affection from his family since Christmas Eve. Strange to think today was the Feast of the Epiphany, and only twelve days after Christmas Day. Louisa matched Martin's subdued mood with a quiet greeting, "Hello, Martin, I hope your trip was everything you had hoped."

"Hello, Louisa. Yes, ah, it was satisfactory. Susanne Matlock reminded me a bit of Ruth. And I did get my clock back, although I think I will leave it with Ruth for safekeeping for a while."

Louisa caught an undercurrent of anger in that last statement and decided not to press Martin for his reasoning. He looked completely drained and she realized that this trip must have felt like hours of grueling therapy to Martin.

"Right, well, I'm glad you got it back. I'm sure Ruth will enjoy seeing it for a bit. Let's go home, Martin."

"Yes."