Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [39]
‘It’s good to see your closeness with your friends,’ said Liz at last. ‘From what I’ve observed, you obviously have a lot of time for each other.’
‘You should see the arguments!’ said Smith. ‘Of course, their. . . interests. . .
differ from mine, but ultimately. . . I suppose we do look out for each other.’
He looked at her closely. ‘I know you sometimes feel like packing it all in, handing over the reins to Dr Oldfield. . . ’
‘He’s been niggling away at me for years,’ agreed Liz. ‘Sometimes I just feel too tired to argue against the man.’
‘It’s at those times when you desperately need to remember who you are.’
‘And who is that?’ asked Liz.
‘You are a fine human being,’ said Smith. ‘You are an excellent doctor, a more than competent administrator. You have security, you are happily married. . . There is someone in your life who wishes only to see the world through your eyes, to experience everything that you do.’
‘You’ve never been married, have you?’ asked Liz, surprising herself with the bitterness audible in every syllable.
‘No,’ said Smith, moving over to the window with his coffee. ‘Well, not as such. Or, at least. . . ’ His words trailed away, leaving Liz Bartholomew to fill in numerous, ridiculous blanks (divorce? A tragic death? Bigamy?). ‘I am an observer of such things,’ he said grandly. ‘I watch from afar. But I did not mean to imply criticism or condemnation.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ said Liz hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry.’
She joined Smith by the window, observing a couple of patients strolling through the grounds. Mrs Rogers sat at an easel, sketching the lawns and the trees, the folly in the distance; inspired by Watercolour Challenge, she had taken to patrolling the Retreat with paints and sketchbook in hand, though each end result looked identical, a sea of black, punctured by yellow and pink stars.
66
‘I suppose what you said. . . It’s what I aspire to. But this job, running the Retreat. . . I see Joe so little, and when I do, I’m knackered. I’m such poor company. I’m sure I talk more than I listen – Joe could have changed jobs for all I know!’
‘And you haven’t been intimate in weeks,’ said Smith, without a trace of embarrassment – or, perhaps, comprehension. It was a statement, not a question.
Liz drew breath sharply – were her marital problems that obvious to all and sundry? Did people gossip about her, or had Joe confided in Smith at some point? But it was all a nonsense: Joe had never even met Dr Smith, so far as she knew, and there was not a trace of malice on Smith’s face. He didn’t strike her as a man with an ear for gossip.
Thomson chose that moment to burst in, whistling tunelessly. He glanced over at Smith and Liz and seemed immediately to pick up the atmosphere between the pair. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to. . . ?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Liz hurriedly, grateful for the interruption but now worry-ing that Thomson might think there was something going on between the two of them. ‘We were just talking about one of the patients.’
‘That’s right,’ said Smith, seamlessly – to the man’s credit, he was playing along without a pause. ‘Laska Darnell,’ he continued, now almost taking Liz by surprise. ‘I know she is technically your patient, Dr Thomson, but I admit I find the woman quite fascinating!’
‘That’s right,’ said Liz limply. ‘We were just discussing. . . ’
And then she tailed away, not having a clue as to what they might have been talking about.
‘She strikes me as being a player of games,’ said Smith grandly. ‘Very hard to perceive what’s really going on in that brilliant mind of hers.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Thomson. ‘Will the real Caroline Darnell please stand up?’ He paused, considering his next words carefully. ‘Actually, under that couldn’t-give-a-toss exterior, I reckon there’s a little girl who just wants people to be nice to her.’
‘I think that’s what we all want, Dr Thomson,’ said Smith.
Liz realised that Mike Thomson was looking at her