Doctor Who_ The Awakening - Eric Pringle [8]
Jane felt her sense of reality take a jolt: for a moment she almost felt that it was she, in her twentieth-century clothes, who was the odd one out, an intruder from another age.
She felt uncomfortable, and more than ever before she experienced the strange sensation that this room actually held more than it appeared to contain – that these ancient trappings had brought with them something from their own century: overtones, associations, memories. It was that, she decided, which made the atmosphere in here so compelling.
Jane tried to pull herself together. It was ridiculous that a modern young schoolteacher should allow herself to think like that.
Sir George Hutchinson thought so too, and was telling her so in crystal clear terms. He stood in front of the fireplace, working that spongy black ball with his fingers, and adopted his most persuasive manner.
‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘Every man, woman and child in this village is involved in the war game –
except you. Why?’ He tossed the ball and snatched it out of the air. ‘It’s great fun. An adventure.’
‘I understand that,’ Jane said. She tried to make her smile less mocking, but she still could not consider the prospect of an entire village raking up an old, unhappy, far-off war much fun.
Wolsey watched them both carefully, uncertain where he should stand in this difference of opinion. Neutrality seemed the safest option at the moment.
Sir George pursued his argument. ‘Join us,’ he invited Jane. ‘Your influence may temper the more high-spirited, prevent accidents.’
‘Look,’ Jane explained, as if to one of her schoolchildren who had missed the point entirely, ‘I don’t care if a few high-spirited kids get their heads banged together. It’s gone beyond that.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Suppose what happened to me out there happens to someone else--a stranger, an imiocent visitor to the village.’
Sir George leaned forward. ‘There will be no visitors to the village,’ he informed her. His voice was excited, his manner eager and intense – almost joyful – and his eyes shone. ‘It has been isolated from the outside world. No-one can enter, or leave.’
He glanced triumphantly at Wolsey. The big man looked defiantly at Jane, who stared at both of them, appalled by this bland proposal. ‘You can’t do that!’ she exploded.
Sir George stormed to the table, snatched up a map of the village and checked his lines of defence. ‘Can’t I?’ he demanded. His voice was sharp now and he snapped the words, brooking no argument. ‘It’s been done.’
Persuasion time was over.
Yet even as Sir George spoke, across some fields outside the village, three strangers were climbing damp stone steps out of the ruined crypt of Little Hodcombe Church.
They emerged into a small side chapel. This led through an archway to the nave of the church. The Doctor was in front, as always eager for exploration; Tegan and Turlough were close behind him. All three, however, were stopped in their tracks by the sight which greeted their eyes when they entered the nave.
It was still a church, but only just: sunlight slanted through windows high in the walls and illuminated a scene of devastation. The Doctor and his companions looked across the nave at what seemed like the aftermath of some unspeakable carnage: dust and rubble were spread everywhere; roof timbers lay askew where they had fallen, among great blocks of stone; smashed pews had been tossed like sticks into corners.
And yet it was still most definitely an English country church. Two rows of pews remained standing; they faced a single, beautiful stained glass window in the end wall of the sanctuary. The stone pillars looked to be reasonably intact, and across from where they stood the companions could see a carved timber pulpit, seemingly unharmed, which might have been waiting fire the village priest to enter and preach his sermon.
It was weird. The place was ruinous, silent and still, and it had obviously not been used for years ... and yet, shabby and neglected though it was, it could be used, even now –