Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [31]
‘Only a couple of sweet old dears – Connie and Jessie. Oh, and the dork that answered the door. Bernard, I think he was called. But he was a tent short of a campsite.’
‘Good! Then I think it’s time we paid Graystairs a visit. You know,’ he said wistfully as he nodded a goodbye to Claire, ‘I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a granddaughter.’
‘There’s a choice,’ said Megan, avoiding eye contact with either the Doctor or Ace, gazing blankly at something that seemed to be hovering above their heads. She was chewing gum and rocking her hips to music in her head (probably something naff like Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, thought Ace and tried not to smile). Megan seemed a most unlikely care assistant.
When she’d opened the front doors of Graystairs to them, Ace had half wondered whether Megan was staff or resident.
She’d been only two rungs up the evolutionary ladder from Bernard – who, thankfully, they saw no sign of. She had ushered them into an empty sitting room, pointed at a copy of T he People’s Friend -with, mysteriously, the head of the cover model carefully torn out – and told them cryptically: ‘Sydney’s been at it again, so if he offers to show you his scrapbook, just say no.’
Moments later, she’d returned to say that Doctor Menzies was doing his rounds, and that they could stay for tea until he could show them round. An offer that the Doctor – at least –
hadn’t been able to refuse.
‘Splendid!’ he enthused, his eyes sparkling like those of a child who’s been offered a trip to McDonald’s.
‘Fritters or Dumfries pie?’ asked Megan.
‘Um.’ The Doctor frowned and wiggled his mouth around.
‘What would you recommend?’
‘Fish and chips from the village chippy.’
‘Oh. In that case I’ll have the fritters. Ace?’
‘Whatever,’ replied Ace glumly, just hoping that Megan turned out to be a secret alien spy, and that she’d get the chance to whack her one at some point in the proceedings. ‘Fritters too, I suppose.’
‘Excellent choice, madam,’ Megan said and shuffled away into the kitchen.
‘I thought you were a veggie,’ Ace hissed.
‘When in Rome, Ace. When in Rome. Anyway, they might be vegetarian fritters.’ He didn’t look too hopeful.
Ace glanced around the dining room. ‘How can they stand it?’ she whispered. Five large tables, thirty or so chairs, and acres and acres of painfully clashing chintz and doilies; every available surface was covered with little mats, coasters and ornaments –
china ladies with parasols, bizarre creatures made out of shells with goggly eyes, even a carved wooden African mask; a jumble sale of memories and experiences, crammed willy-nilly into a lace-trimmed hell. At the other end of the dining room, half a dozen of the residents were quietly finishing their meal. Ace wondered if Megan had positioned her and the Doctor as far away from them as possible on purpose. She smiled over at them, but the frail, birdlike woman who caught her glance returned it with a hard glare that made Ace turn away uncomfortably.
Suddenly, Megan slammed the kitchen door wide open, rattling the flowery plates on the dresser, and thrust her head into the room. ‘Fritters is off,’ she said.
‘Dumfries pie it is, then,’ said the Doctor, rubbing his hands.
‘I can’t wait.’
Minutes later, the two of them were staring disconsolately at an arrangement of food so dismal Ace felt as though they should be giving it a burial at sea rather than eating it. A crusty scab of pastry, covering what appeared to be chunks of bacon fat and tomatoes, nestled alongside a considerably undergenerous portion of pale chips and a scattering of wrinkly peas.
‘Cruet’s on the sideboard,’ Megan informed them without so much as a backward glance as she shuffled back into the lounge to start the bingo, tugging down her skirt at the back for reasons known only to herself.
‘I’m sure it is,’ the Doctor said