Doctor Who_ The Devil Goblins From Neptune - Keith Topping [8]
'Not mine, I hasten to add.' said Mark.
'Of course,' said Liz.
Mark handed her a cup of tea, and she began spooning in the
sugar.
'You never used to take sugar.' he observed.
'Army tea - it's unique. After thirteen months I'm starting to acquire a taste for it'
'And army life in general?'
'It's not like I've been conscripted or anything,' explained Liz. 'I can leave whenever I want.'
'Really? That's not the impression I get.'
'No, it's true. I'm always on the verge of leaving.'
'Then why don't you?' Mark came over, and for one awful moment Liz thought he was going to hold her hand or something. But he stopped short, and beamed his most disarming smile. 'You gave up your ground-breaking research to go off with some mad foreign professor who sees a UFO in every abduction and a primeval force behind every crop circle. Why do you stay with them, Liz? You said you hated it at first.'
Mark led the way into the sitting room, flicking off the kitchen light as he went. Liz followed, sipping her tea. '1 did hate it. But... Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'm learning that there are important things going on, beyond the dusty halls of academia.'
Mark snorted, sprawling in a large armchair. Foam leaked on to the brown carpet. 'You were the one who used to disagree with me when I said there's more to life than books.'
'I was joking.'
'I'm not so sure.'
'Times change. People change.' Liz tried to get herself comfortable. 'It's like I said in my last letter. I suppose it's as simple as that.'
Mark smiled again. 'Same old Liz. You were saying that when I first got to know you.'
'I remember saying to Wellington one day - "Nosey," I said...'
John Benton would normally have allowed the mistake to go uncorrected. His respect and admiration for the Doctor knew no bounds, and he realised that, as with all good storytellers, many of the Doctor's tales were at best apocryphal and at worst utterly fabricated. But Benton felt curiously liberated by the wind rushing through his hair and the sun that painted the landscape on one of the first cloudless days of summer.
'Napoleon,' he interjected quickly.
'I beg your pardon?' said the Doctor, clearly annoyed at being contradicted in mid-sentence.
'Last time you told me this story, it was Napoleon,' said Benton sheepishly. He knew the Brigadier wouldn't have tolerated such an interjection, but then he didn't share the Doctor's fully developed sense of humour. Actually, that wasn't really fair on the Brig. Some time ago it had dawned on Benton that - underneath their vastly different exteriors - the Doctor and the Brigadier were remarkably similar in temperament and outlook. Both were men of integrity, passion and honour, and Benton would willingly have walked into a withering barrage of gunfire for either.
'Really,' said the Doctor huffily. He paused for a moment and Benton held his breath, fearing that he had caused offence. But the Doctor was just changing gears on his yellow roadster Bessie, the road having flattened out again. He dabbed the accelerator and turned to face Benton with a beaming smile. 'My dear fellow, I spent a considerable length of time in the Peninsula. I was with a British rifle brigade when I met Sir Arthur Wellesley. And I was a prisoner of the French at Salamanca - 1812 I think it was. I always find it's best to see both sides of both sides, if you see what I mean'
'I didn't really think you approved of war, sir,' said Benton.
The Doctor turned his attention back to the twisting country lane. He sighed as he changed gear for another sharp corner.
Sometimes it's inevitable,' he noted with genuine sadness. 'I'm a man of peace, but I seem to spend much of my time caught up in conflict. The central paradox of my life, perhaps.'
Benton leant back in the seat. 'What's the central paradox of mine?' he asked, fascinated.
'You're far too intelligent for your role in life, Sergeant Benton.'
Benton