Part 9 (1/2)

Joan paused for a moment, feeling Wolsey squirm at the sudden lack of their hands. She wetted her lips and willed herself to form the sound. 'Yes.'

He bent his head to her, and like a little boy just discovering this, took her face in his hands. They were warm and still against the skin of her cheek. She felt that, more than she'd felt anything for years. She closed her eyes. The distance between then and now hurt inside her, and she let go of the breath she'd been holding, letting herself breathe deeply and fast, remembering all the things about being married that she'd enjoyed and let herself forget. Her heart was pounding like a dance, but he was studying her, like a painter, from a distance. She opened her eyes again, and saw that he was terribly afraid.

'Yes,' she insisted. 'Yes.'

'Yes,' he said. And brought her mouth on to his. After a moment, a minute, they parted again. And kissed again, exploringly this time, now that that terrible uncertain thing was dead and they were delighting in the knowledge that this was what they both wanted to do.

Finally they stopped, and Joan let her head fall on to his shoulder, and, in a kind of unlikely stumble, they got up and shuffled back to sit together on the sofa. Wolsey fell off in disgust and stalked into the kitchen.

'May I sit on your lap?' Joan asked. 'I feel, oh, I'm blus.h.i.+ng, like a young maid, and, I must admit, I'm rather enjoying it. You don't think me forward, do you?'

'Oh yes. ..' Smith giggled. 'Forward. As opposed to reverse. I've got all my gears mixed up.' He helped Joan as she got up, smoothed down her skirt and settled back on to his lap. 'This is so ridiculous,' she said, not being able to catch his eye as he awkwardly put an arm around her waist. 'I've been married, I shouldn't feel all nervous like this.'

'I'm, erm, nervous too,' Smith muttered. 'I don't feel as though I've ever done anything like this before.'

'I'm glad you feel like that, because I'm terribly afraid,' Joan whispered. 'You do mean you're my sweetheart, don't you, John? I'm far too old to be ruined. Not that I have been ruined yet. I mean at all. I mean - '

Smith's face hardened. 'Stand up,' he told her.

'Oh no, John...' Joan's voice sounded utterly lost. 'No, please don't. You won't tell, at least say you won't tell, I'll give you anything - '

'Hush.' Smith sternly walked into the hall and picked his hat from the peg. He positioned it carefully on his head.

Joan ran to the door, and pushed herself between it and him. She'd had time to become angry now. 'How dare you use me this way!' she demanded. 'To think I trusted you! I may be ruined tomorrow, but I'll tell you what I think of you first!'

'And what's that?' Smith grinned.

'That - ' Joan frowned. 'That... what are you grinning at?'

'I'm grinning at time. At circ.u.mstances. At my sweetheart.'

'You mean - '

He tipped up the brim of his hat, and, against her slight protest, kissed her again. 'I won't tell anyone, because I don't tell people things I can't believe. You can tell me all about it again tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.'

Joan laughed with relief and kissed him again, longer. 'So why are you going?' she asked. 'I mean, you could stay for a little while longer at least.'

'I could - but I wouldn't want you to think anything was ruined. Least of all you.'

He put a finger to her nose and opened the door. 'Good night, Joan.'

'Good night, John. Oh -' She stopped him. 'I just realized. Smith and Joan.'

'Well,' said Smith, kissing her knuckle, 'that does sound like a double act.'

And then he was gone, off into the night.

Joan gazed after him until he vanished, him turning and smiling back at her at intervals.

Then she closed the door and leant on it. 'Oh my goodness,' she exclaimed, putting a hand to her breast. 'I think I just started getting younger.'

Smith skipped down the lane, his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that the Isley Brothers hadn't written yet, a grin that was unwipeable spread across his face.

Up ahead, he glimpsed a street lamp that hadn't ignited, the last one on the comer before the darkness of the countryside swept in.

He looked up at it and raised a hand, intending to tap the pole.

In romantic stories, the gas filament would then ignite. He tapped.

Nothing happened.

Still indomitable, he shrugged, turned and made his way off down the lane.

Behind him, a little corner of light sprang up. He glanced back at it and nodded.

'Yes.'

Chapter Five.

Hurt/Comfort

Excerpt from the writings of Dr John Smith So for what season or circ.u.mstance was I built? My thumbs are useful, my appendix, which hurts sometimes as if newly made, is not. Sometimes it feels as if I'm bigger on the inside physically, too. Joan told me that the Latin I failed to understand referred to that. The school motto refers to the relative dimensions of books. I like that. If you could see information, a book would be like a pin-cus.h.i.+on in your hand.

Still haven't found Gallifrey on the map. Maybe I made it up?

Excerpt from a letter written by Joan Redfern, date unknown I'd forgotten. It was like a sleeping tiger, and it was suddenly awake and upon me again. And it was beautiful. I'd forgotten. It was like a sleeping tiger, and it was suddenly awake and upon me again. And it was beautiful.

As darkness fell across the valley below, Benny and Constance were walking up a narrow lane, past badger sets and through thickets of stinging nettles that Benny had to swat aside with a stick taken from an old elm. They were climbing up to the wooded hillsides, Benny realized, heading in the direction of the statue of Old Meg.

During the walk, while Constance was silent, Benny had come close to despairing.

There'd been no sign of the aliens, if that was what they were. Perhaps the reason that the Pod was gone was that they'd found it and gone too.

She and the Doctor would be trapped here, and she'd have to find a way to survive when the money ran out. Perhaps Alexander would give her a job. At least she could sleep in the TARDIS. If the aliens had the Pod and hadn't left, mind you, the only option was to get it off of them by force. Now, that would be really difficult.

'Have you got arms dumps all over the place?' she asked Constance.

'Yes. Asquith doesn't show any signs of budging, so we're going to start blowing a few more things up.' The young woman had struggled valiantly up the hill, hitching her skirts as they went.

'What if a war starts and other people start blowing things up?'

'A war? With whom? I mean, it looked as if the Germans were going to have a pop a few years ago, but that's all calmed down. Churchill's started to dismantle the Navy, and they're doing likewise. No, it's only now, now that there are no more wars to be fought in this world, that we can really do something about our situation. Asquith thinks he can sleep easy, bar Ulstermen or Anarchists, but he hasn't reckoned with us.'

They'd reached the top of the hill. Benny helped Constance step over a stile, and they walked over to the statue. The old woman sat proudly on a stone chair, her bag clasped in her stone hands, looking down at the valley.

While Constance started to examine the back of the chair, Benny glanced down at the town below. Comfortable lights had popped up all over and the smoke of evening cooking was drifting from chimneys. A line of white steam marked the pa.s.sage of a train along the branch line; she could just hear its sound in the distance, the regular beat of humanity at peace.