Doctor Who_ Return of the Living Dad - Kate Orman [21]
They grinned at each other.
Back in the café, there was a strong, acid smell of dishwasher detergent mingled with the smells of coffee and grilling. Joel looked at Benny over the counter and waved a washing-upgloved hand.
Jason was sitting by himself at a table, trying not to look grumpy. She put an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the top of the head. ‘I haven’t forgotten you,’ she said.
‘What’s to forget?’ muttered Jason, as she slid into the seat beside him. He pushed the paper away. ‘Isn’t this exciting? Finding your long-lost father after all these years.’
Benny drummed her fingers on the table. ‘It’s not like I thought it would be,’ she said. ‘I mean, there was the initial complete and total blubbing and freaking out session. For me, at least.’ She vaguely gestured around. ‘I wasn’t expecting any of this.’
Jason said, ‘Isaac doesn’t need rescuing.’
‘My God,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly it. He’s all right. He doesn’t need to be saved.’
They just sat there for a few minutes, Benny’s head resting on his shoulder.
‘You’re so tense,’ she murmured. ‘Look, I just want you to know that I’m not going to totally ignore you while we’re here.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Jason. ‘I hate being back here.’
‘Back where?’
‘Back in the English countryside in the eighties,’ he said.
‘I was born this year, you know.’
‘My God, Jason,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘I could go and find my dad too,’ he said. ‘Get on a train.’
She held onto his arm. ‘Don’t.’
Nah,’ said Jason. ‘It’s history.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s upstairs. Go on.’ He looked at her with sad eyes. ‘Go on and get to know your father.’
The Doctor had followed his dowsing rod for an hour, tracing a wide circle around Little Caldwell. He stepped carefully around fairy rings growing in the woods. He walked through a field of wheat, fully grown in the winter greyness, filled with the traces of crop circles. He made soothing noises to a pair of cows until they let him take a look at their legs. The small incisions weren’t serious.
At last he came to an ancient, shattered cottage, huddled in the very corner of a field, just a cluster of walls like rotting teeth. A bitter wind was whipping the clouds through the sky.
It must have been over a century since the house had burnt clown. The rows of wheat curved around it, giving a wide berth to the eroded walls, the fallen stones and the weeds. Perhaps it had been the original farmhouse, unsalvageable, left to rot after the fire.
‘A good place to look for ghosts,’ he said, leaning over the wall.
The middle-aged woman started gratifyingly, nearly knocking over her tape deck. She turned around, half in a crouch, and glared up at him through her spectacles.
‘I hope you’ve brought an umbrella,’ said the Doctor. ‘I don’t like the look of that sky.’
The woman stood up, leant on the wall, as though they were neighbours chatting over a fence. ‘Do you come here often?’ she said dryly.
The Doctor smiled. ‘It’s the only landmark for miles. Do you know the history of the place? Any murders, suicides, that sort of thing?’
‘Little Caldwell has a grey lady,’ said the woman. ‘She’s supposed to appear here, at a crossroads near a bridge, and very occasionally in the town. Supposedly she’s an Egyptian woman who married an English nobleman. The story is either that he strangled her and set this cottage on fire to hide the crime, or that she committed suicide and was buried at the crossroads.’
‘Is there any historical basis for it?’
The woman shook her head and held out her hand.
‘Ellen Woodworth.’ The Doctor shook her hand. ‘Are you a local, Mister...?’
‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘I’m on holiday.’
‘I’m staying in Newbury for a few days while I do a little fact-gathering. You must be in the business yourself.’
‘Oh, no,’ said the Doctor. ‘There just aren’t that many things you can do with a cassette deck and a jar of plaster of Paris in the middle of nowhere.’ A raindrop splashed him on the nose, and he blinked. ‘Are you planning to stay overnight?’
‘Just me and