Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [20]
‘Boys will be boys,’ said Thomson, watching as Oldfield sat down. He was a stiff, grey-skinned man, who seemed able to drain the warmth out of any environment in which he found himself.
‘Really?’ said Oldfield gravely. ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’
Thomson couldn’t imagine Oldfield climbing apple trees and having fun.
But then he couldn’t even imagine Oldfield as a boy – he was the sort of man who’d surely been born in a suit with a Conservative party membership card in the pocket.
‘Just thought you should know,’ said James, clearly terrified to have remained part of this conversation. Thomson sympathised – he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
‘Of course,’ said Liz, with a nod indicating that he could go.
Just as James was scurrying off Thomson called out, ‘You still on for badminton after work?’
James turned, clearly irritated at having been hauled back. ‘Sure.’
‘Catch you later then.’ Thomson noisily folded the newspaper. ‘Liz, at risk of sounding like a bad stand-up comedian, did that man come to see you yesterday about the dog?’
‘Dog?’ queried Oldfield.
Liz nodded. ‘Chap from the village,’ she explained. ‘He was walking his dog in the woods when the animal suddenly went, er. . . ’
‘“Bonkers” was the word he used to me,’ said Thomson, revelling in this rare chance to be politically incorrect.
‘The dog came into the grounds,’ continued Liz. ‘The owner wanted permission to search the area. . . ’
‘Which you denied him, I am sure?’ said Oldfield.
‘Well, no, actually,’ said Liz, clearly flustered.
Thomson experienced a pang of regret – he hadn’t helped the situation, or poor James for that matter. When would he learn to keep his big mouth shut?
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‘I didn’t feel there would be any harm in letting Mr Farrell escort him around the place,’ stated Liz.
Oldfield raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘Anyway, they found nothing, so the man said he’d continue to search the woods,’ concluded Liz.
‘Hooligans invading the grounds, nosy locals searching for lost pets – this is hardly an environment in which we can expect our patients to thrive,’ said Oldfield.
Thomson was about to counter that having miserable gits treating them was hardly going to help either, but he bit his tongue.
‘All this on top of the cottage being used by Smith and those young researchers. . . ’ Oldfield looked around, as if expecting to find support from his fellow doctors. ‘This is a centre for serious scientific research, not a youth hostel for cash-strapped students.’
‘Your opposition to Dr Smith and his colleagues remaining on site was noted at the time,’ said Liz. ‘I for one welcome his presence here.’
‘Let’s face it,’ said Thomson, ‘Smith has shown that he’s more than willing to help out in an emergency, even if he isn’t on call. You can’t fault the man’s commitment and compassion.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Oldfield. ‘But the whole set-up strikes me as odd. Those two youngsters he brought with him. . . ’
‘Fitz and Trix. . . ’ began Liz.
‘Hideous names,’ commented Oldfield. ‘Them, and that “Laska” of yours, Dr Thomson. What is the matter with people today?’
Thomson remembered his earlier grumpy old man moment and wasn’t too harsh. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, desperate to build bridges. ‘I have a nephew called Peter John. He already wants to be called “PJ”. He’s only five!’
‘Fitz and Trix are mature students, doing some fascinating research into Victorian attitudes to the mentally ill.’ said Liz. ‘They’re studying at the same university where Smith used to lecture. It seemed an ideal use of our resources.’
‘And if you’re worried they have coke-fuelled student orgies each night,’ said Thomson, getting to his feet, ‘I’m afraid they don’t.’ He folded the newspaper under his arm – he’d read it somewhere else. ‘More’s the pity,’ he added, under his breath but still loud enough for Oldfield to hear. Anything to wind the old bugger up.
As Thomson