Doctor Who_ Island of Death - Barry Letts [60]
„There‟s all sorts,‟ he went on, gesturing to a line of casks with taps, from which jugs were being filled with different-coloured juices. „Or plain water, of course. That‟s the one at the end.‟
Funny. The diamond-clear spring running through the rocks behind the table must be the one mentioned by the whaler.
„Why should they bother to put it in a barrel?‟ Sarah asked.
„Filter it or something I suppose. I never bother with it, anyway. This purple thingy juice is my tipple. Honestly, Sarah, it‟s the bee‟s knees!‟
Sarah laughed affectionately. Jeremy‟s slang was always out of date. He probably got the expression from Mama.
Funny how it used to irritate her. „Not the cat‟s whiskers?‟
she said, taking the goblet.
„Probably that as well,‟ said Jeremy with a laugh. „Have a taste and see for yourself!‟ He took a long swig from his own glass.
She lifted it to her lips, and was about to take a sip, when she happened to catch the eye of the Doctor, who was at the other end of the table. He was shaking his head at her.
Vehemently shaking his head. What was he on about?
She lifted the glass again, and this time he not only shook his head, but was mouthing „NO!‟.
Oh. Yes, of course.
What was it he‟d told them in London? Three per cent of some sort of drug in the fruit juice she‟d nicked from the Skang place? Extremely powerful, he‟d said.
Jeremy was busy filling up his own plate. She quietly put down the drink untasted.
„Mmmm! Dee-lish! The cat‟s whiskers, no question. In fact, I‟d even go so far as to say it‟s the cat‟s pyjamas!‟
„Hey! Is this mango?‟ she said, changing the subject. She reached over to scoop the orangey-gold cubes onto her plate.
„Mm,‟ he said with a mouth full of cherries and a nod.
The spoon was just about to go into her mouth when she thought to take another look at the Doctor. Maybe the food was off limits as well. But he seemed to have lost interest in her, once he‟d stopped her drinking, and was talking intently to Mother Hilda.
Oh well, it couldn‟t kill her... A spoonful of sunshine! Oh, bliss!
„You know what Jeremy? I‟m seriously thinking of becoming a mangoholic!‟
It wasn‟t as funny as all that, she thought, as he spluttered bits of raspberry, giggling at the idea.
Extraordinary that they had such an enormous variety of superb fruits and stuff, of all different seasons and from all the countries of the world. Better than any supermarket. A sort of Fortnum and Mason in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
She scooped up a dollop of the most colourful fruit salad and, as she munched, her eyes wandered over the scene. The sailors didn‟t seem to mind that their hoped-for pints had been replaced by draughts of thingy juice‟. On the contrary, you‟d have thought it was Pompey on a Saturday night. She even spotted the delicious Miller slipping off into the darkness of the greenery behind the palms, with his arm around a slim white waist.
She recognised two or three of the London Skangites, yacking away as if they were at a party in Hampstead. One had produced a guitar, and was belting out a Beatles number.
Another face... Yes, of course! It was Mr Gorridge, singing along like a teenager, happily swaying with the rhythm, hardly recognisable as the neurotically wound up First Officer of the Skang.
That‟s where all the food came from, of course. The Skang.
It would be bound to have umpteen cold stores and galleys and stuff. After all, it was designed for a millionaire - and a millionaire‟s guests.
„By the way,‟ she said to Jeremy, who was concentrating on an ear of sweet corn, trying to stop the melted butter from running down his chin, „we were wondering. Where‟s the Skang?’
He blinked.
„Sorry?‟ he said, his mouth full. „Oh, fish hooks! It‟s all over my shirt!‟ He dived into his pocket for a handkerchief, and feebly dabbed at the greasy spots. „Sorry. I wasn‟t listening.
What did you say?‟
The Skang. What have they done with her?‟
He looked puzzled. The Skang?‟ His face cleared. Oh, you mean the ship.