Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [2]
sake. But the gravity of the situation somehow demanded a special effort – a costume for this new and unaccustomed role.
She hoped the staff didn’t realise she was wearing the same outfit that she’d worn when she’d first brought Mum up here.
Joyce fumbled about in her stiff, shiny new handbag, checked her hair was still in its tight bun, found the postcard she’d written back at the B&B and read it once more. She didn’t have a clue when the Doctor would get it – and, if he did, how long it would take him to respond. If at all. But her concerns were too vague to contact anyone else – apart from Michael, and she hadn’t heard back from him yet. Knowing the Doctor, vague concerns were most definitely his speciality.
She paused as she slipped the postcard into the box, remembering the last time she’d seen him: they’d had a lovely, blowy, day out at Cromer, the Doctor striding along with his snowy hair fluttering in the wind. They’d had scones at a teashop
– which Joyce had fought hard to pay for – and had taken the scenic route back to UNIT HQ in the Doctor’s bizarre, yellow car. She hadn’t seen him since, although they’d exchanged messages and phone calls every now and again. But he’d given her the address of a post office box in London in case she ever needed to contact him. Joyce turned suddenly at the roar of a motorbike, dopplering up in pitch as it headed towards her. She pulled back sharply from the edge of the pavement as Angus, the son of the B&B’s owners, hurtled past, dangerously close. For a moment she wanted to shout after him, tell him not to be such a young lout. And then she realised that was just what her mother would have said. And we all become our parents.
She watched Angus sail off around the bend in the road, blue smoke streaming from his exhaust. He was probably no better and no worse than most lads of that age – although she’d heard shouting and the slamming of doors the previous night, back at the B&B. She hadn’t heard what it was about. She didn’t know, didn’t really care. She had her own worries.
Joyce glanced at her watch and realized that she’d have to hurry to get to Graystairs before lunch started. They weren’t keen on visitors during lunch. With a last, fretful look at the postbox, she hitched her handbag over her shoulder and set off.
It took her a long half hour to get there – a long half hour in which she had precious little else to do but worry about what the results of her mother’s tests might show. A long half hour in which she had to try hard to be the cool-headed scientist, and not the hopeful daughter.
Despite the spring sunshine and the prickings of bright greens and yellows that littered the tree-lined lane winding up the hill towards it, Graystairs managed to emanate a heavy chill. It fell darkly across the surrounding countryside like the events of the last few days. Joyce pulled her new jacket tighter as she climbed the broad, stone steps to the front door. Even the brightly coloured curtains and the red-and yellow-painted window boxes couldn’t disguise the nature of the place – a place where ill people came on a desperate pilgrimage to be healed.
How much of that was in her own head, Joyce wasn’t sure. Her eyes drifted across the front of the building and she caught a flicker of something pale at one of the topmost windows, someone – or something – that pulled back quickly from view.
The door was answered by Bernard, one of the care workers.
He was hunched over, thinning hair plastered back greasily, and had a vague air of uncertainty about him. She felt a twinge of guilt that she’d placed her mother into the care of people like Bernard. He looked blankly back at her, his eyes small and spiteful behind his black-rimmed glasses, expectantly, clearly waiting for her to tell him her name again. She did. With his customary lack of charm, he gestured her in, closing the door behind her with a