“Which would mean that he might not remember me at all.” Martha like her mother before her, stepped in to help. “I’ve considered that father, just as I’ve considered the possibility that if he totally recovers his memory then he might never want to see me again … but don’t you see, if I don’t believe in him or I send out the wrong message, I might never get a second chance and I could never live with myself if that happened. Didn’t someone once say that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”
Dr Monroe smiled at his daughter’s passion, for it reminded him just how it felt to be in love with someone and not know if they truly loved you. He knew that they both had to try and if hoping for the best caused more pain, well they’d cope with that, just as they’d coped with the pain caused by the loss of Martha’s mother.
“It was Alfred Lord Tennyson, from his poem In Memoriam.” Her father said, as he thought about his wife… “Right you’d better write out an advertisement and put it in the post office…”
Martha’s face exploded into a broad, deep smile… a smile that was so reminiscent of her mother’s and a smile that had captured her father’s heart all those years before.
“… but, that doesn’t mean I agree with you. The trouble is you’re too much like your mother. She was always thinking of others.” He’d meant it as a compliment to the two women who’d filled his life with love, and although he wasn’t sure that it was entirely what he’d meant to say, it made Martha’s smile grow even broader.
“I know father and mother knew it… it’s just taken you all these years to realise it.”
The girl had been the best choice mainly because surprisingly she’d been the only applicant and whilst Martha had wanted a local person to be given the opportunity, in the end the decision had been made for her. The girl, a recent newcomer to the town, was the ideal candidate because not being from Cromarty, she’d needed somewhere to live and she’d been over the moon when Martha had explained that she would be given Donald’s old room in the attic, as a perk of her new position. A room, which would mean that she was always on hand to help… in effect she’d explained to the girl, she would become ‘part of the family’. But equally important for Martha was the fact that if the new girl took the attic, then Donald would need another room in which to sleep and the room next to hers was the only other one available.
They’d all settled nicely into a domestic routine by the end of the first week. Tammy took over the household chores of cooking, cleaning and the laundry, leaving Martha to concentrate of getting the house turned round and brightened up. Donald’s doctors couldn’t or wouldn’t give Dr Monroe a definite timeline, save to say that each and every time he rang, he was told that the patient was making good progress.
From a medical point of view Dr Monroe had thought the world a cruel place… why he’d wondered, as he’d sat alone in his surgery after thanking the neurosurgeon for his update, had Donald woken up thinking he might be this Tom Cox and if had had to choose a new accent why couldn’t it have been a soft Highland brogue.
The doctor knew from experience how cruel a small rural community could be and if he came back to the town now, he’d have a name that was more akin to a variety of English apple but worse he’d have an accent that would be ridiculed every time he asked for a pint of milk at the town’s grocery store. God he knew, moved in mysterious ways but even for the Almighty that was a step too far.
Perhaps, if he did decide to return to the town, maybe this Tom Cox would consider changing his name… for Martha’s sake. It wouldn’t have to be much, the doctor thought, just an odd vowel. If Tom became Tam and he adopted the family name of Monroe, that would go a long way to alleviating the problem and not even an Englishman could object to a name that had been immortalised by the great Scottish bard himself… of course, looking on the black side, he’d still sound like a Sassenach with a speech impediment trying to learn a foreign language but if it made his daughter happy, then the strange looks and finger pointing would be a cross worth bearing.
When Martha wasn’t painting and decorating and the days were fine and bright, she’d spend every last hour out in the garden, ensuring that the soil was turned over and the weeds were pulled out and burnt on the bonfire, just as Donald had taught her. The gate to the beach, which had stood like a sentinel propped against the wall ever since Donald had pulled it off its rusty hinges, she’d burnt and had a new one made out of oak and on the side facing the shore, she’d carved two seals lying on a beach, in honour of the first seals they’d seen. The same seals in fact that had returned time and time again to the same spot on the same stretch of beach. An event that Martha took as an omen for Donald’s imminent return.
“But Martha you don’t know if Tom will ever come back.” Her father had pleaded over dinner one evening. Since that first occasion when they’d talked about Donald coming home he’d always sought to use the name Donald, the inopportune reference to Tom had slipped unconsciously from his lips.
“I don’t know how many times we must have this discussion father, but he’ll be back of that I’ve no doubt… oh and until Donald does return and tells me face to face that his name is Tom and not Donald, I would be grateful if you use the name he chose when he first came here.” Martha had stated with a matriarchal confidence and determination, as she over-emphasised Donald’s name to reinforce her point.
“I know it’s not for me to say.” Tammy chipped in, as she placed the dinner plates onto the table. Her cooking hadn’t been the revelation Martha had hoped for, but what she’d lacked in culinary finesse, she more than compensated with her portion control.
“But I agree with Martha, his name is and should always be Donald. I mean we don’t even know who this Tom Cox is, do we?” Whilst Martha had been pleased with Tammy’s sister-like support, she tetchily thought that Tammy was taking the idea of being part of the family just a little too far… ‘We?’ there was no we. When she wanted her advice or input into a family matter, she’d ask Tammy for it, until then she was the live-in help, nothing more.
If her father had been shocked by his daughter’s new found dominance, he and the many others who took a daily stroll along the shore and admired the skill shown by the artist who had carved the seals into the gate, would have been amazed to learn that it had all been Martha’s own work.
But had Dr Monroe ever taken the time to pop his head around the door of the garden shed, he would have been even more amazed at the array of driftwood sculptures and carvings that adorned the interior of the wooden hut. It was a talent that Martha had modestly stumbled across and had kept hidden from the world and her father, because she wanted Donald to be the first person to cast a critical eye upon her work. Only then, if he liked it and thought it worthy of more acclaim, would she allow others to see the wooden sculptures. Whether they appreciated her work was irrelevant, because the one person that mattered the most, would have given his seal of approval.
Martha’s plan was to decorate Donald’s new room with plain painted walls in a rich mellow yellow colour and dress the windows and bed with sets of complementary pale cotton fabrics. She knew that the house’s tall ceilings and grand plaster work would present her with a few problems of access and reach, but she’d overcome both with the help of a pair of rickety-looking wooden steps that one of her father’s old friends just happened to have lying around his builder’s yard. Although, as her father had pointed out to her when she’d first brought them back, they weren’t in the best of condition and might even be described as dangerous… verging on lethal.
“Your dad’s right Martha…” Tammy had thrown her own unwanted advice into the mix, as she’d popped her head round the bedroom door, just as Martha had been setting up the steps to start decorating. “…you’ll need to be very careful. I mean what would happen if the securing cords accidentally snapped, as you were stretching to reach the ceiling?”
“But that won’t happen Tammy. Mr Ferguson assured me that the steps ma
y look a little tatty but they are completely safe and anyway of course I’ll be careful near the top… I don’t want to fall off and hurt myself any more than my father or you want me to. So please stop worrying.” Martha had replied curtly.
“Me…I couldn’t do it. They look too high and unstable. I’d been terrified of falling and breaking my neck. I mean if you fall awkwardly you could snap your back or your neck just like that.” Tammy clicked her fingers just as Martha had placed her foot on the next to top step. The noise, together with Tammy’s commentary made her momentarily lose her balance and wobble nervously like a one legged acrobat.
“You see I told you they were dangerous.” Tammy declared, as she’d scooted away and left Martha to regain her balance and consider what had just happened. Perhaps, Martha had decided, she would leave the ceilings until another day when there was no one about to offer their unwanted advice and make her feel nervous and unsteady.
The next few days had been taken with preparing and painting the walls of the bedroom, which Martha knew she could manage and reach without taking any unnecessary risks. Tammy though had been concerned that sooner or later Martha would have to use the steps again and had shared her concerns about the already near accident with Dr Monroe. She’d told him in confidence, whilst cleaning the surgery one night that the stepladder was an accident waiting to happen and he should make sure that Martha didn’t use them… if need be he could forbid her to use them, she’d told him. But Dr Monroe knew that would only push his daughter in the opposite direction.
“Forbid is rather a strong word Tammy. Martha can be wilful, even stubborn sometimes, just like her mother… no I think it’s best if we just let her get on with the painting. I’m sure she’ll be extra vigilant now and anyway the both of us can keep an eye on her and make sure she’s safe.” The doctor had replied whilst making a mental note how thoughtful the girl had been in bringing the matter to his attention and pointing out the possible dangers inherent in the old stepladders. Yes, he’d thought as he left the girl to finish cleaning the surgery, they’d landed on their feet when Tammy had answered the advertisement, although he was still unsure why only the one application had been received, especially as he’d spoken to Mrs Henderson about coming back to help.
But if he’d learnt anything in life, he mused as he’d ambled home that night, it was that there were nothing as queer as folk and just when you thought you knew someone, they turned out to be completely the opposite of your expectations.
The next few days had been filled with glorious sunshine and blue skies and had driven Martha to abandon her decorating plans in favour of gardening or beachcombing. The day after any storm always produced the best flotsam and jetsam and Martha had fallen into a routine of being the first person to walk the stretch of beach behind the house after the high tide had ebbed away. On that particular day, she’d been fortunate that the storm had been so fierce and the quality and quantity of the various woods blown ashore so good, that it had taken her most of the day to drag and carry all she’d found up the beach and into the garden.
But it was a fact of life in Cromarty that the weather never stayed dry and still for long and after a further couple of days of gardening in the glorious sunshine, the weather had turned once more and on the very next day Martha had been woken by the rumble of thunder and belts of rain driving ashore across an angry looking Firth. The glass of her bedroom window acting like some soldier’s drum, as the drops of water bounced off its surface and ran in streams down the outside of the house
Martha had waited for her father to go off to his surgery and Tammy to brave the rain and wind on her morning walk to the general shop and post office, before she’d carefully placed the stepladder under the ceiling rose in Donald’s new bedroom and gazed nervously upwards. Better that there was no one around when she started painting the ceiling, she’d decided, that way if she were to have another wobble, there’d be no one to say… I told you so.
Close up, the ceiling looked as it would need at least two coats of paint but overall Martha had thought its condition was good enough not to require too much preparation. She’d used a roller on the walls but balancing on the top of the stepladder didn’t lend itself to a roller and tray, so she’d started with a wide brush and a tin of paint, which she’d balanced on one of the steps.
Standing on the top of the stepladder, like a circus acrobat, she’d only managed a few tentative, nervous brush strokes when without a wobble or a warning jolt, the knotted hemp cords, which secured the two halves of the wooden steps, spontaneously unravelled resulting in the two halves parting like a tipsy dancer doing the splits, throwing Martha from her precarious perch… closely followed by the tin of paint and her brush.
“I told you they were dangerous.” Dr Monroe had lovingly admonished his daughter, as he’d gently stroked her hair and head in the privacy of his surgery’s consulting room. By some miracle Martha had toppled from the top of the steps and had managed to land on the pile of old bedding that she’d cleared out from the linen cupboard and loosely bundled into a number of old cardboard boxes for collection by a local seaman’s charity. The whole pile had fortunately acted like some stuntman’s landing platform, cushioning her fall and ensuring that her injuries were nothing more than hurt pride, bruises and a splattering of white emulsion. But just to be sure she’d taken herself off to the surgery so that her father could examine her for any injuries that hadn’t immediately manifested themselves. The downside of such a prudent reaction to her fall was that she’d had to own up to her tumble, but she’d gone prepared and ready to rebuff any unwarranted criticism…
“But father I checked the steps last night knowing that I would be using them today and they were perfectly safe. I just don’t understand how the securing knots came undone like they did. It was almost as if they were like magicians knots.” Dr Monroe looked bemused by his daughter’s comment… knots didn’t simply undo themselves. But Martha knew what she meant even if her father couldn’t understand her.
“Surely you remember the magician who came to the fete last year. One of his specialities was a rope trick. He tied a knot in a piece of rope and then when he pulled it taut the knot disappeared… well that’s what happened to me. They were definitely knotted but as soon as I put pressure on the ropes, by standing at the top of the ladder, the knots just slipped apart, causing me to fall. I retied them after the fall and they’re fine now… an elephant could climb up the steps and they’d not collapse.”
“Well at least you’re alright, the paint and the other damage is irrelevant we can repaint and replace everything except you.” Martha’s father kissed her cheek and then suddenly had a thought. “Where’s Tammy?”
“She hadn’t come back from the shop when I left the house to come here. I guess they were busier than normal this morning… why?” Martha asked quizzically.
“Oh I was just thinking that had your injuries been life threatening and so bad that you couldn’t move then you might have died because she wasn’t there to summon help. I don’t think I could have lived with myself if that had happened, please promise me that you’ll not work from the top of the ladder unless she’s in the house with you... just to be on the safe side… promise.” Her father pleaded.
Tammy was busy in the kitchen when Martha returned from the surgery nursing her bruised arm and pride.
“Hello.” Martha called out jauntily, as she over-played her attempt at normality. “I guess the shop must have been busier than normal?” She didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation but her tone implied it nonetheless.
“Why, have you been out checking up on me? I’d have thought you’d have had enough to do upstairs without spying.” Tammy uncharacteristically snapped back. Martha couldn’t decide if Tammy was annoyed at her being alive or life in general.
“If it is any of your business, I’ve just been to the surgery because I fell off the stepladder and if it hadn’t been for that stack of boxes, I might have broken my neck.” Martha hi
t back angrily. Sometimes it appeared to her that Tammy thought of herself as the woman of the house whilst she was merely the home help.
“Sorry.” Tammy replied a little too unconvincingly for Martha’s liking. “The shop was quiet really, just me and Mrs McTear until that crabby, old bag walked in.” Tammy saw the disapproving look on Martha’s face. There were many infuriating old women in the town but her father had a position of respect within the community and as she’d tried to impress on Tammy during her interview, whatever the provocation, she mustn’t be rude or disrespectful to anyone.
“Sorry… and before you ask, no I didn’t call her that, but I could have and she’d have deserved it.” Martha thought the encounter sounded more than a simple altercation over who got served next or who might buy the last haggis.
“What happened?” She asked in her kind and gentle voice, all thoughts of her fall and where Tammy had been were put to the back of her mind.
“It was that old ba… sorry old lady, Mrs Henderson.” Tammy managed to hold back her anger and correct herself before Martha had chance to admonish her. “She took exception to the fact that I was doing the doctor’s shopping, told me I was a foreigner, an outsider… a sasasomething… anyway it didn’t sound like a compliment, then she dragged me behind the bread shelves and told me she would be keeping her beady eyes on me… whatever that means. After that she pushed in front of me, bought a tin of cock-a-leekie soup and stormed out of the shop.” Tammy declared with all the innocence of a lamb at the slaughter house.
Stranger at the Wedding Page 47