In the often erratic time and space machine called Tardis,
the interior of which confounded all but the most refined logic by being many
times larger than the exterior, the white-haired old traveller called Dr Who
and his granddaughter Susan stood by the craft’s six-sided control panel,
getting their breath back.
‘That was very close, Grandfather,’ Susan gasped. She was a
slender young girl with short, dark hair and elfin features.
‘I can’t disagree with that, child,’ the Doctor replied,
with feeling.
'We nearly lost the Ship for good.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Dr Who stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘A fascinating world, though. Quite fascinating.’
Susan flashed him a quirky, engaging grin. ‘I loved the
copper-coloured sky.’
Dr Who smiled fondly at her. They were two of a kind. The
quest for knowledge and new experiences was always uppermost and the related
dangers were invariably risen above. Their escape from the planet Quinnis, in
the Fourth Universe, had nonetheless been especially tight. Very tight indeed.
Perhaps they would both benefit from a period of rest. He
could make a few repairs to the Tardis at the same time. He smiled as he
suddenly recalled the occasion when Susan had made up the unusual name of their
remarkable craft from the initial letters of Time and Relative Dimensions in
Space.
They had spoken of having a little relaxation quite a few
times before, of course, but the idea had only rarely come to fruition.
‘We do have a tendency to run into trouble,’ he admitted.
Perhaps that was inevitable, thought Susan, for two
wanderers through the fourth and fifth dimensions.
Scenes from their recent destinations flitted across her
mind. Tudor England; Grandfather throwing a parson’s nose at King Henry VIII to
induce the enormous and terrifying monarch to commit them to the Tower of
London, where they had left the Ship; their unusually tranquil stay at
Jabalhabad, India in 1843; the colourful and eventful reminiscences of Siger
Holmes, British Army officer and father-to-be of the famous Sherlock; a
Zeppelin raid at Burton-upon-Trent in 1916; Hilda Hogg, a young cook,
sheltering them in her employers’ kitchen; the green planet called Esto; the
earsplitting screeches from two telepathic plants when she stood between them
and unintentionally cut off their communication.
The high-pitched grinding sound that accompanied
materialisation filled the room, then died away as the round glass column in
the centre of the control panel ceased to rise and fall. They had arrived at
another destination already.
Dr Who turned on the scanner-screen, but it displayed only
flickering, horizontal white lines on a black background.
Susan sighed. ‘That’s something else out of order.’
‘How very tiresome,’ grumbled the Doctor.
‘The air is breathable.’ Susan looked up from the controls.
‘Shall we risk a look outside?’
Dr Who responded by turning a black switch. The great doors
swung open and they stepped cautiously into the new environment.
The Tardis possessed the ability to change its outside
appearance to blend with new surroundings. It had now assumed the shape of a
blue police telephone box, rather old and battered, and stood in a dilapidated
yard that was positively choked with a wide range of junk.
‘A rag and bone yard,’ the Doctor told Susan.
Susan laughed. ‘A what?’
‘A scrapyard. A repository for discarded items,’ elucidated
Dr Who.
‘Items to be destroyed?’
‘The idea is to resell them.’
Susan regarded the merchandise on offer doubtfully.
‘One can live in hope, if only to die in despair,’ chuckled
the Doctor.
‘I expect this ‘Police Public Call Box’ the Ship has become
must be a typical piece of surplus equipment to be found in a place like this,
then, Grandfather.’
Dr Who was actually by no means convinced that this was so.
He was somewhat disturbed by the disguise his camouflage circuit had selected.
If the craft had materialised on a street corner it would have been
understandable. He hoped this odd choice wasn’t an indication that the circuit
was on the verge of malfunctioning completely. It would be decidedly
inconvenient if the Tardis became stuck as a police box. He hastily brushed the
thought aside. Then it occurred to him that this totter’s yard might possibly be
in London, where, if he recalled alright, such call boxes were to be found for
some years. Perhaps the circuit had misidentified the landing site only by a
matter of yards? That would be some comfort, at least.
They wandered around the covered yard, fascinated by the
sheer multiplicity of objects.
‘What’s that big brown pottery thing?’ Susan queried,
pointing.
‘That, Larn my dear…’The Doctor broke off, having caught Susan’s eye. Her
original name still occasionally slipped out of his mouth instead of the one
she had chosen for herself.
‘That,’ he resumed, ‘is a pancheon. You make wine in it.
Home-made wine, which can be very potent, you know.’ He nodded reminiscently.
‘I really must make some more of my parsnip elixir. Yes, indeed.’ He paused.
‘The pancheon is made of terracotta clay.’
There was a Victorian walnut credenza decorated with
marquetry. Kitchen tools with chipped red and white handles had been deposited
with their metal rack in a rust-scarred jam kettle. A large, rather dark
painting depicted several brown hens, Leghorns by the look of them, pecking
away in a farmyard. Dr Who’s attention lingered on it.
‘Hopefully not a Hondekoeter,’ he muttered.
Susan heard him. ‘Why, Grandfather?’
‘Because, child, it is leaning against a very damp-looking
wall.’
‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean.’
A hacking cough nearby startled them. A gate at the back of
the yard, the Doctor now noticed, was ajar. When he pushed it fully open he
beheld an area open to the elements and occupied by more durable items than
those inside. Two men, one tall and broad, maybe in his thirties, his scruffy
apparel including a flat cap, the other small, old and thin, wearing an ancient
black overcoat and matching trilby, both looking furtive, were standing by a
pile of scrap metal. The younger fellow was about to add part of a bicycle.
‘I see you’ve found something you’re interested in.’
Both men all but leapt from the ground as Dr Who spoke. The
older one recovered quickly. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he demanded
aggressively. ‘This is Isaac Foreman’s Yard and you’re not ‘im. I knew Isaac
from the London Totters’ Annual Knees Up. He snuffed it three weeks ago.’
Defiantly, the old relic lit a cigarette.
‘This person seems most uncouth,’ the Doctor commented
audibly to Susan.
‘What’s that terrible smell?’ Susan enquired suddenly,
waving a hand in front of her face.
The younger man jerked his head towards the old. ‘My dad
makes his own tobacco, wiv’ horse manure and shredded ‘bus tickets.’ He
tendered his disreputable parent a withering look. ‘I’m afraid he’s a very
dirty old man.’
‘My granddaughter and I are occupying this yard for the time
being,’ the Doctor loftily informed the purloining totters. ‘Shall we say five
shillings for that metal?’
‘Five!’ expostulated old Albert Steptoe. ‘Tell him where to
stuff ‘is rubbish, ‘Arold!’
‘Done,’ agreed Harold Steptoe, their delicate situation in
mind and steadfastly ignoring his permanently exasperating old father. ‘Steptoe
and Son always pay a fair price,’ he added ingratiatingly, causing Albert to
roll his eyes in despair.
‘I’m glad to hear it, young man,’ Dr Who told him, rather
tartly. He caught Susan’s reproachful look and was thus reminded that he was
being no more straightforward than the unsavoury-looking pair before them. ‘I
do hope,’ he hastily added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘that we can transact
further business in future to our mutual benefit, h’mm?’
‘Oh, indubitably,’ Harold responded, who liked to think of
himself as erudite.
‘Oh, gawd!’ mocked Albert, who enjoyed puncturing his son’s
pretensions.
With difficulty, Harold resisted a familiar impulse to get
his hands around the old git’s scrawny neck and half choke him to death. As
early as breakfast that morning, the first words the skinny little sod had
spoken, deliberately calculated to wind him up, had more than served their
purpose. Then came the suggestion that Harold should forget the usual round
with the horse and cart today and that instead they should both make a
hopefully profitable visit to Number Seventy Six, Totters Lane, Shoreditch,
where the premises of the late lamented Isaac Foreman were likely to be
unattended. Now, after suffering the company of his pernickety pater for even
more time than normally, his reward was the necessity of paying out to
extricate them from the embarrassment of being copped red-handed by another
gimlet-eyed old cove.
In the face of the day’s veritable mountain of irritation,
he nevertheless managed to avoid grinding his teeth just yet and summoned a
twitchy smile for the Doctor as he handed him two half-crowns.
Old Albert brushed
past them both. ‘I ‘ope there’s a khazi ‘ere somewhere,’ he said loudly, ‘cos
I’m burstin’ an’ if there ain’t watch out if yer pick up a vase.’
Harold cringed and hurriedly began to pick up his purchases.
After Hercules the horse had pulled cart, Steptoes and old
iron away from Totters Lane, clip-clopping his way back to Number Twenty Four,
Oil Drum Lane, Shepherd’s Bush, Dr Who eyed Susan thoughtfully.
‘I think, my dear,’ he announced after some moments, ‘that
we might settle here for a time while I make a few repairs to the Ship. Perhaps
we could arrange to further your education in some way as well.’
He paused to draw his cloak more closely about him. There
was a chill in the air, he decided.
‘In the meantime,’ he went on with a smile, glancing down at
the coins in his hand, ‘we’ll make a little café, bacon sandwiches and a pot of
tea our first objective, shall we, h’mm?’
written by
MICHAEL BAXTER
copyright 2014
artwork by
COLIN JOHN
copyright 2014