Doctor Who_ Human Nature Part 8

She crept downstairs. She wanted to warn Alexander about what was going on, but having warned one person, where could you stop? She suspected that, soon enough, the whole town would know that there were aliens about. 'I say!' a voice called, and Benny spun to see Constance knocking on the window. The woman frowned when she saw the way Benny was dressed. 'I say, do let me in, they're behind me!'

Benny swore ten times as she pulled the bolts out, and hauled Constance inside.

'Who's behind you?' she asked.

'Why, the police. What on earth are you dressed like a man for? I mean, I've dared to wear the odd pantaloon myself, but what have you done to your hair? Those trousers are positively obscene, darling.'

'Never mind my trousers, Constance. I might be being chased myself.'

'Yes, I heard. You poor dear. I think that's why they've called in extra police. They arrived in a motor van. We both were heading here, and I managed to put a bit of a lead on with my bicycle when they got trapped behind some sheep, but - '

'You're saying the police are on their way here?'

'Yes, because you were, you know, interfered with. At the pub. Bernice, if they see you in that get-up, they'll have you locked up in an asylum and let that thug who did it off with a warning!'

'They locked him up?'

'No, they're still after him. There were veterans from three different regiments at that inn. They competed over him, but he still got away. I think it was while he was being dragged to the police station by the Dragoons.'

'Sounds nasty. What about the little girl?'

'He hurt her too, didn't he? She was driven to hospital. Out of the frying pan, I'm afraid...'

'What do you mean?'

'Why, the place seems to be on fire. That's where the fire brigade are going. All go in town today.'

Benny shook her head. 'You don't know the half of it. Do you know where I can find a gun?'

Constance looked at her shoes, abashed. 'A gun? Do you mean to shoot him? I understand the urge, but don't you think - '

'I wasn't molested, Constance, at least not in the way you mean. I need to defend myself, and you know where I can find the means to do that.' Benny put her hands on the young woman's shoulders and stared into her eyes. 'Don't you?'

'Yes,' Constance said, after a moment. 'We don't have any guns; we've never had the need to use them, but we are equipped to damage property on a large scale. But the ordnance isn't to be used for-'

'Near here?'

'Very.'

There came a harsh, official knock on the door. 'Come on,' said Benny. 'You show me the way. We'll go across the fields. I'm getting used to ditches.'

Joan carefully lifted the lid from one of the saucepans on the stove and peeped inside. 'Perfect.' She replaced it, and, humming a ragtime tune to herself, popped to the mirror in the lounge to check her make-up.

Well, it would have to do. She didn't look too much of a ruin for a woman in her forties. Like one of those d.u.c.h.esses that surrounded themselves with an army of handsome young men. She'd like to have had her hair done, but her invitation to John had been on such an impulse that there hadn't been time. That was the thing about her job, no time to get anything else done, what with preparation and marking and all that. No time to really live.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, chided herself and dashed back into the kitchen.

Dr Smith wandered jauntily along the lane, glancing up at the darkening sky from time to time. He was dressed in white tie and tails, with a top hat, gloves and a white gardenia in his b.u.t.tonhole. He was whistling a tune he couldn't place, and wondering about all manner of things he didn't understand. In his pocket was the second part of his story: The tribe of Gallifrey thought that the inventor was a G.o.d, and started to worship him, but then he told them not to. him, but then he told them not to.

'I have brought new ideas for you,' he said. 'I want to help you.'

And so he told them about travelling through time and s.p.a.ce, and about the police.

He taught them how to build police boxes, and he taught them about law and books and civilization. and civilization.

It was progressing, but he still didn't know where it was going.

He stopped beside a tree and doffed his hat to it. I wonder, could I have this dance?'

He took the tree by its lower branches and stepped carefully back, moving his feet as if the thing were following his lead. No, his ability to foxtrot hadn't deserted him, so Joan's gramophone wouldn't be a tremendous obstacle; though if she wanted to bunny hug or chicken scramble, he'd be at a loss.

She wouldn't though, would she? Not in private, anyway.

But there was something else. He looked left and right along the road. There was n.o.body about.

Carefully, he puckered his lips and touched them to the bark of the tree. He experimented with wider and narrower kisses, finally letting go with a little scowl and shrug. He didn't remember kissing anybody since Verity. Surely there must have been. There'd been somebody called Barbara, hadn't there? In Rome - an Italian? But he'd never been to Rome. He must have read it in a book, probably one of those Arnold Bennetts that were keeping him awake at night.

All in all, it was a good thing that he wouldn't be doing any kissing tonight either.

He spun on his heel and doubled his speed along the road.

Joan opened the door of her little house to him and took his hat, popping it on the peg in the hallway. 'What a K-nut you look! It's nearly ready,' she told him. 'I hope you like fish?'

'I don't know,' Smith grinned. 'What sort of fish is it?'

'Cod in a white wine sauce, new potatoes and mixed vegetables. I am not exactly Rosa Lewis, but - '

'I'm sure it'll be fine. How was your day?' Smith wandered about the room, examining the pictures and ornaments that decorated the front room. He took off his gloves and put them down on a bureau. As Joan turned back to the kitchen, he raised a small display case that seemed to have fallen over on the mantelpiece, saw that it contained three medals and put it back down again.

'Fine,' Joan called. 'Lab all afternoon, and you know boys and chemicals, they love mixing things up and making clouds of smoke. Talking of which, did you see the fire in town today?'

'No.' Smith settled into an armchair. 'Cricket practice. What was burning?'

'Mr Blum the fishmonger says that it was St Catherine's. We will have to see what the paper says tomorrow.'

'The hospital...' Smith pondered, hefting a gunmetal paperweight in his hands.

There was an insignia of some kind stamped in the metal, a few numbers and letters. He quickly put it down as Joan came back into the room.

'It's ready,' she said. 'Come on through.' The meal, as it turned out, was excellent.

Afterwards, Joan set up a little table in the front room, and they played a few of their customary hands of whist, at which she was supreme, as always.

Smith threw up his hands and let his cards fall to the table. 'You're too good for me. Is there another game we could play?'

She arched an eyebrow. 'You sound like a young rake.'

'I, erm, ah, well, I was wondering if you played chess?'

Smith fumbled with his collar and succeeded in unfastening a b.u.t.ton.

'Not very well, but I do have a set.' Joan exited for a moment then returned, blowing the dust from a fabric-bound board. 'Under the bed, and rather distressed.'

'I'll only distress it more. Which side do you want?'

'Black.' She sat down, pulling her chair around to face his.

They began to set up the pieces. 'That's odd. Most people choose white.'

'I suppose that I like other people to make the first move,' she murmured, not looking up.

'I'm just the opposite.'

'Are you really?'

They played for a few minutes, then Smith seemed to break off thinking about a move. 'My niece came to see me on the cricket pitch today. She's down from Newnham College. She was dressed in trousers.'

'Oh, a suffragette. Silly things. We'll get the vote sooner or later, just as Mill predicted. I don't think there's much point in burning things down.'

'No,' Smith agreed. 'There's always a way to talk yourself out of a situation. She dragged me off into the orchard.'

'You did say niece?'

'Yes. My brother's daughter. She's called Bernice. You ought to meet her. I'm sure you'd like each other.'

'Quite possibly. These bright young things take my breath away, with their motor cars and their vortexes.'

'Sorry, their what?'

'Oh, you know, Wyndham Lewis and all that. It is as if all the rules about art have been torn up. All very exciting, but they do make me feel quite old.'

'Oh, Bernice isn't that young. Thirty-two. I think.' '

Your brother must be much older than you.'

'Yes. He's a sailor. Got his nose caught in... She wanted me to see a tree.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. She tried to find something there, but couldn't. She told me it was very important.'

'Oh dear. Do you think that she could be in trouble?'

'Perhaps. I don't know. She seemed to think that I was.'

'Hmm. I could imagine you getting into trouble quite easily, but I think you would be able to get out of it, also.'

'That's not usually the way.'

'I can see you as a prefect or something, running about organizing things. Where did you go to school?'

'Well, that's complicated... An old woman taught me how to read, at my father's hearth. Her name was Sarah McLeod. She died at Culloden.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. A cla.s.sical place for a McLeod to die, though.'

A sudden image had rushed into Smith's mind, contradictory to anything he could express - an old lady on the end of a bayonet. 'She was old,' he whispered. 'And then I went to a little school in London. I carried the Oxford English Dictionary in my left blazer pocket and a bag of marbles in my right. No wonder I started to lean to the left.'

Joan laughed. 'You seem to have lived several lifetimes. Like Whitman, you contain mult.i.tudes.'

'It feels that way, sometimes,' Smith agreed, missing the reference.

[image]

'Whitman also said - Oh, h.e.l.lo, Wolsey.' The tabby tom-cat had wandered under the table, put up a questioning paw against Joan's leg and then hopped up on to her lap. 'Are you a cat person, John?'

'Yes,' said Smith, still looking as if he was trying to organize several different thoughts that were buzzing randomly around his head. 'May I?'

Joan paused only a moment. 'Yes, of course, Wolsey loves attention. He arrived after I'd moved in here. He's a wanderer. I'm not sure how long he's planning to stay.'

Smith got up and made his way to Joan's side of the table, the chess game forgotten. He squatted beside her and gently put his fingers on Wolsey's chin.

Wolsey had his eyes closed as Joan stroked his stomach, but now he opened them and rubbed the scent glands on the side of his head against Smith's fingers.

Smith trailed the tip of one finger round the back of the cat's ear as it curled itself on the white material of Joan's lap, stretching its back to be stroked. Joan ran her fingers down its back, letting Wolsey feel the tips of her nails, as Smith rubbed it under the chin with his thumb, smiling as the cat stretched its jaw forward in pleasure.

'Look, he likes this,' said Joan, her voice low. She took the base of the cat's tail gently in her hand, and smoothed it all the way down, letting go of the end with a little reflexive twitch. She repeated the action many times, shifting her weight to give Wolsey more room to turn and twist in her lap. The cat was purring loudly and unrestrainedly, opening itself up to the two pairs of hands. While Joan smoothed its tail, Smith was running the tips of his fingers along its stomach.

'My goodness,' Joan breathed. 'You must be good at that. He normally grabs people who do that and tries to bite them.'

'I'm good with cats,' Smith muttered. 'They run right up to me as if they know something I don't.'

'And do they?'

'I don't know.'

'They must feel safe in your hands.'

'They aren't. I don't keep things safe. I used to. Perhaps. I can't keep all the plates spinning. I drop some.'

Their hands collided across the soft expanse of Wolsey's stomach. Smith's hand swept right over Joan's and she kept that hand still, accepting, the tips of her fingers gently playing with the smallest swirls of the animal's fur.

A moment later, Smith's hand swept back again and she looked at the top of his head as the hand pa.s.sed over hers, delighting enormously that he didn't look up and meet her gaze with something terrible and shattering like a smile.

'Well, that is always the risk, if you're a plate, isn't it?' she whispered, letting her fingers catch his cuff, but keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the fine hairs at the back of his neck. 'If you want to be spun, then you must accept the possibility of being broken.'

Slowly, his head came up to look at her, his gaze flicking uncertainly over her face, as if in search of a sign. His pupils were bigger than she'd ever seen a man's be, and she'd seen several.

'And do you - ' he gruffed, seeming to have such difficulty with the words, but with no difficulty at all in the sudden certain strength of his stare, 'accept that possibility?'