Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [29]
‘That bad, eh?’ The girl downed the dregs of her lager.
‘That bad. You here for Graystairs?’
‘Does it show?’ The girl nodded as Claire pointed at her empty glass. She pulled her another.
‘Not really – just that strangers are few and far between round here. The odd camper or backpacker. We get a few fishing trips and landscape painters who don’t know blue from green.
Who is it, then? Your grandad? Grandma?’
The girl paused. ‘Grandad.’ She took an appreciative sip of her lager, clearly weighing up how much to impart to this nosey, over-brained barmaid. No problem, thought Claire. People were generally a bit awkward about Graystairs. ‘So – what do people say about the place?’ the girl asked.
Claire pulled a face as a middle-aged couple came in, all tweeds and stout shoes, accompanied by their little black dog.
They looked around the pub slowly, as if surveying it, before stepping up to the bar.
‘Two juices of orange,’ the woman said precisely.
‘Two orange juices?’ queried Claire with a frown.
‘That’s correct,’ the woman said with a nod.
Claire served them and returned to Ace as the couple ensconced themselves silently in a corner near the fire, the dog taking up position between them.
‘Foreign tourists?’ asked Ace.
Claire shook her head. ‘No, locals I think. They sound German or something, don’t they? Don’t often see them in here but they’ve been in a few times over the last couple of days.
Probably bored witless with scenery and fresh air. Anyway, I was telling you about Graystairs, wasn’t I?’
As Ace drank her lager and Claire her own orange, she gave Ace a potted history of the place: Graystairs had been a convalescent home from when she was a little girl (her mother had worked there as a cleaner for a while until the ‘odd behaviour’ of the residents had proved too much for her); and about three years ago, the home had been taken over by a Doctor Sooal (who liked to keep himself to himself and was never seen in the village) who, rumour had it, was working on some new treatment for Alzheimer’s disease.
‘And by all accounts, it’s pretty effective,’ she concluded.
‘We’ve had people in here in tears, buying everyone drinks ’cos their mother or father’s made a miraculous recovery.’ The girl asked what the treatment actually involved, and Claire could only shrug. ‘All very hush hush, really,’ she confided – and then proceeded to prove that it was nothing of the sort by telling her that she’d heard it involved all sorts of electrical shocks and a host of strange chemical potions.
‘I don’t believe it myself, but Barry – the landlord here – says he’s heard they make their patients drink their own, you know...
wee.’
The girl pulled a yeuch face and the two of them broke into disgusted giggles. Claire stopped herself, clasping her hand to her mouth.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Not if your grandad is thinking of going there. Just pretend I didn’t say anything, will you?’
Ace nodded good-naturedly. ‘I’m Ace, by the way.’
‘And what, exactly, are we pretending you didn’t say?’ said a voice suddenly, and Claire almost choked. A small man – dark brown jacket, cream hat, ugly umbrella with a chunky red handle
– stood at the bar, raising a disapproving eyebrow at the half-finished pint of lager that stood in front of Ace.
‘Oh, Professor! Um, just looking after this for someone.’ Ace gave a thin smile and gently pushed the glass away, distancing herself from it. Claire smirked. ‘This must be your grandad, then.’
‘Doctor, this is...?’ Claire stepped in with her name and Ace’s grandad tipped his hat at her. It seemed a bit odd that she’d called her grandfather ‘Doctor’ – maybe he had delusions about being a brain surgeon.
‘Just remind me,’ he said, a smile on his lips. ‘What’s the legal drinking age nowadays?’ He darted a meaningful glance towards Ace’s glass.
‘So, Grandad, had a nice stroll?’ Ace jumped in quickly – not as old as she acted, then, Claire noted.
‘Very nice, thank you. Glass of water for me, please.’
Claire set the Doctor’s drink on the bar and tucked her short, dark