Doctor Who_ The Nightmare of Black Island - Mike Tucker [23]
Bronwyn waved at him from in front of the stove.
‘Clear yourself a space and sit down. Watch out for the duck.’
The Doctor stepped warily into the room. A large mallard eyed him from its position on the couch. Moving a box of shoes, the Doctor sat down carefully next to it.
Bronwyn bustled out of the kitchenette, a plate of Welsh cakes in her hand. She thrust the plate at the Doctor, taking one herself.
‘I remember you now. Said that you were here to help.’
‘That’s right.’
She glowered at him. ‘How?’
‘Well, for starters I wanted to ask you about Nathaniel Morton. You don’t seem to have much time for him.’
‘He’s messing with things best left alone.’
‘You mean the creatures?’
‘I know what I mean.’ She took another mouthful of cake. ‘You said Bob sent you over? So you’ll be wanting to hire the boat?’
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‘That’s right. Want to get out to the island.’
‘Why do you want to head out there?’
‘Erm. . . To see the seals?’ The Doctor took a bite of his Welsh cake, ignoring the greedy eye of the duck.
Bronwyn nodded, as if that explained everything. The Doctor went on, ‘I gather that the island is the best place to see them.’
‘That’s true. And you’re in luck. I was planning on heading out there myself.’
She undid her apron and threw it into the corner, then fed the remains of her Welsh cake to the duck, which swallowed them greedily.
‘You wait there, Dr whoever-you-are. I won’t be a minute.’
She pushed her way through the tangle of boxes to another door on the far side of the room. Hoping that she wasn’t collecting any shampoo, the Doctor picked up a stack of photos from the table alongside him and started flicking idly through them.
Almost all of them were in black and white, showing the village as it had been. From the look of things, not that much had changed over the last fifty years or so. The harbour was just the same, the seafront dominated by the imposing Victorian facade of the pub, the street leading up the hill still lined with the same cluster of small shop fronts, only the signage in the windows and the price tags visible on stalls giving the age of the photographs away. There were shots of the lighthouse in the bay, the paintwork clean and fresh, the lighthouse keepers posing proudly on the rocks at its base. There was even a photo of the rectory, its gardens neatly kept and the shrubbery that now grew wild trimmed and orderly.
As the Doctor looked through the photographs he realised that a lot of them featured Bronwyn as a young woman. She had been attractive in her youth, with long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and a smile on her face in every picture.
One photograph showed her standing outside the beach house, a young man at her shoulder, a baby in her arms. The house was tidy and whitewashed, a line full of clean clothes hanging alongside it. Another showed the three of them on the beach, only this time the 56
baby had grown into a small boy in shorts, his knees covered in sand, a bucket and spade being waved enthusiastically at the photographer. The Doctor put the photographs down and stared around the room. Nearly all of the photos on the walls or in frames on the top of cupboards featured the boy. He must have been five or six years old at a guess.
Hauling himself out of the sagging sofa, the Doctor slipped on his glasses. A jumble of photographs of the boy in a smart school uniform sat propped up against a vase on one of the groaning shelves. He picked them up, peering at them one by one. The boy had the same bright eyes and slightly crooked smile as his mother.
‘Where are you now, I wonder?’ he murmured.
Plucking one of them from the pile, the Doctor slipped it into his jacket pocket.
At that moment Bronwyn bustled back into