by Doctor Who
‘Lost?’ she demanded through the open side window. The Land-Rover was old and muddy, with wiper-shaped holes in the grime covering the windscreen.
‘Er. . . ’ said Martha.
‘On our way to Creighton Mere,’ said the Doctor.
‘Well, you’re on the right track then,’ advised the woman. ‘Hop in if you want a lift!’
They climbed in and the woman pulled off before they had properly sat down.
‘In a hurry?’ Martha asked, wriggling her bottom into the worn canvas of the old passenger seat. The interior of the off-reader was no better than its exterior. Martha guessed the vehicle was genuinely ex-military.
‘I’m 83,’ announced the woman. ‘No time to lose.’
11
‘I like your style,’ said the Doctor.
He introduced himself and
Martha.
‘Angela Hook,’ the woman responded, swinging the Land-Rover wildly around a sharp bend in the road. She changed gear with precision – Martha noticed that the gear stick was just that; a long, plain metal stick poking out of the muddy footwell – and then floored the accelerator. The vehicle surged forward with a loyal roar and they bounced and bumped over a series of traffic-calming ramps.
‘Blasted humps,’ growled Angela, jerking in and out of the driver’s seat with bone-breaking force.
‘I think they’re supposed to slow you down,’ Martha yelled over all the rattling.
‘Rubbish! I preferred it when they called ’em sleeping policemen,’
Angela said. ‘They just make me want to speed up!’
The Land-Rover rumbled around another bend, and shot through a large brown puddle sending up a spectacular spray of mud.
‘We met an old man before,’ said Martha. ‘A right old scruff. . . ’
‘Probably Old Barney,’ said Angela without taking her eyes off the road. ‘He’s been wandering around these parts for years. Harmless but smelly.’
‘He tried to put us off coming to Creighton Mere.’
‘Did he, indeed? I’ll have words with him! Creighton Mere’s a lovely place. Miserable old sod.’
‘Do you live in Creighton Mere?’ enquired the Doctor.
‘Born and bred, love, born and bred.’
‘Are there any tea rooms there?’ Martha asked.
‘Not yet,’ Angela said, glancing across at her passengers, as if checking them out for the first time. ‘But we’re working on it. Are you tourists?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Good! You’re just the kind of people we want!’
‘Really?’
The Land-Rover emerged from beneath a leafy tunnel into the centre of a small village. Martha glimpsed a large, well-kept rectangular lawn and war memorial, with an old-fashioned red phone box in front 12
of a nice-looking pub, a baker’s shop and a convenience store. The steeple of a church was visible above the tops of some trees, and then there was a rather grand-looking house which overlooked everything.
Actually, it was more than a house: behind elegant wrought-iron gates, a gravelled drive led up to the impressive portico of a Georgian manor. Martha got quite a shock when Angela deliberately swerved the Land-Rover past the gates and gave it a series of harsh honks on the horn.
Martha glanced at the Doctor, who gave an amused shrug.
‘Sorry about that,’ laughed Angela. ‘Force of habit! That’s Henry Gaskin’s place and it’s my sworn duty to be as big a nuisance as possible to him whenever I pass by.’
‘Ah,’ said the Doctor and Martha together, as if this explained everything.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Angela said. ‘Henry Gaskin is a right royal pain in the backside, and he’d do the same to me any day of the week.
I’m just returning the favour.’
The Land-Rover skidded to a halt at one corner of the village green and Angela switched off the engine. The vehicle settled with a cough and a rattle and Martha followed the Doctor gingerly out. Her legs were shaking.
‘Here we are,’ announced Angela briskly. ‘Creighton Mere.’ She pointed a long bony finger in various directions. ‘That was the manor, obviously. There’s the pub, opposite the cross. It’s called the Drinking Hole, which is a sort of joke.’
The Doctor and Martha exchanged another shrug.
‘Those are the shops, for what they’re worth,’ Angela continued,
‘and that’s where the Post Office used to be until they closed it down last year due to cutbacks. Damned fools. That Post Office was the nerve centre of the village; it’s like cutting out its heart.’
‘Oh,’ said Martha, her gaze alighting on something nearer to hand.
‘What’s that?’
‘Ah,’ said Angela with a little clap of her hands, as if she’d been saving the best for last. ‘That’s what I’m here for. That’s the well.’
It looked to Martha exactly as it should – an old village well, albeit 13
in a state of disrepair. It was quite big, about two metres in diameter, with a circular wall around it to about waist height. The brickwork was crumbling in places, and there were patches of lichen and moss clinging to the stones. Two stout wooden pillars stood on opposite sides of the parapet, holding a heavy-looking windlass. There was no rope and certainly no bucket, though. Martha guessed it had been a long time since anyone had drawn water from this well. It looked to have once possessed a little roof of some sort, but no longer.
‘It’s lovely!’ said Martha. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real well before.’
Angela looked admiringly at the well. ‘It’s our pride and joy – or at least it should be. We’re trying to renovate it. As you can see there’s quite a lot of work to be done.’
Martha leant on the parapet and peered inside. There was a deep, dark hole protected by a heavy iron grille cemented into the wall at ground level, presumably to stop people falling in.
‘Can I make a wish?’ she asked.
‘You can try,’ chuckled Angela. ‘No guarantees, mind.’
Martha checked to see what the Doctor thought of it. To her surprise, he was still standing some way back, hands in pockets, staring at the well with what could only be described as a grim expression.
‘Hey, Doctor. What’s up? Not going to make a wish with me?’
The Doctor didn’t reply immediately. His dark eyes continued to stare at the well, and then, with a sudden sniff, he looked up at Martha as if only just registering what she had said. ‘What? Oh, no. I don’t think so.’
Martha fished in her jeans pocket for some loose change. ‘I’m going to,’ she said.
‘Actually,’ said a voice from behind her, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
Martha turned to see a small woman approaching the well at a brisk pace. She was wearing an anorak, old corduroys and heavy walking boots, and carrying a bundle of papers and files under one arm.
‘We’re trying to check the state of the well-shaft,’ the woman added by way of explanation, ‘so we don’t want all manner of coinage tossed down there, do we?’
14
‘Oh come on, Sadie,’ said Angela. ‘One more fifty pence piece won’t make a difference. Let her!’
Martha smiled. ‘Actually, it’s a pound coin. Big wish.’
‘I don’t suppose one more will matter now,’ Sadie agreed with a smile, but Martha felt the moment had gone. She’d feel really self-conscious chucking a quid down there now and making a wish. The Doctor watched her with an ironic smile.
‘Sadie Brown,’ said the woman, offering her hand as Angela introduced them all. ‘Actually, this is a genuine wishing well, if you know what I mean. People used to gather round it in times gone by to make their wishes. Sort of a communal thing, I suppose.’
‘Did it work?’ asked the Doctor. At first Martha thought he was being ironic, but then she realised that he was being perfectly serious.
‘Hardly,’ replied Sadie with a brief, tight smile. ‘In those days the wishes were mainly to do w
ith crops and livestock, with this being a farming area. But farmers are nothing if not pragmatists, and the custom soon died out.’
‘Sadie’s our expert on wells and restoration and so forth,’ explained Angela breezily. ‘Together we form the Committee for the Restoration of the Creighton Mere Well. Bit of a mouthful, sorry.’
‘There’s been a well here since medieval times,’ Sadie told them.
‘There must have been natural springs hereabouts, but this particular shaft well has been dry for – oh, well, for as long as anyone can remember. We suspect subsidence or even deep seismic shift is responsible for moving the subterranean springs.’
‘It’s a pity,’ Martha said. ‘It looks charming.’
‘It’ll look even better when we’ve finished,’ Angela assured her. ‘Not very many people outside Creighton Mere know about the well, but there are a few people who visit it occasionally. Mostly they’re just ramblers passing through. If we can properly restore the well, we think it could be quite a tourist attraction.’
‘Well, good luck and all that,’ Martha said.
‘The Doctor and Martha were looking for tea rooms,’ Angela told Sadie.
15
‘Oh, that’s not fair,’ laughed Sadie, suddenly brightening. ‘I’m not ready yet!’
‘Sadie runs the bakery here,’ explained Angela. ‘Her buttermilk scones and toasted tea-cakes are second to none. But she really wants to run a good, old-fashioned tearoom!’
‘Once I’ve got the well sorted out,’ Sadie added. ‘But it’s a great idea: The Creighton Mere Well Tea Rooms. Sounds rather good, doesn’t it?’
‘Great,’ said Martha, feeling a bit let down. Her stomach was going to rumble any second.
‘In the meantime I’m afraid there’s just the Hole,’ said Angela.
‘The hole?’
‘The Drinking Hole.’ Sadie pointed across the green. ‘The pub.’
‘Hence the joke,’ Angela said. ‘Drinking hole – well.’
‘Actually, I’d love a drink,’ Martha said, seeing this as a cue to take their leave. She looked to the Doctor for agreement, only to find him still staring at the well, seemingly oblivious to everything else that had been going on. ‘Doctor?’
They watched the Doctor as he slowly walked across to the well and, with some caution, rested a hand on the parapet. He continued to stare at the dark opening, as if challenging himself to look inside, and then, quite abruptly, withdrew his hand. Martha was just about to ask him what the matter was when he turned to her with a sudden, huge grin. ‘Dandelion and burdock!’
‘What?’
‘Dandelion and burdock. Who could resist a drink with a name like that? Dandelion and burdock! Anyway, mine’s a large one.’ He started across the green towards the Drinking Hole. ‘Last one there buys the first round. Come on!’
Shaking her head in despair, Martha started after him.
16
‘You mean there’s supposed to be treasure at the bottom of the well?’ Martha sounded delighted.
‘So they say,’ grunted Angela. They were sitting at a small table in the Drinking Hole. Sadie sipped a sweet sherry, Martha had a mineral water and the Doctor had his dandelion and burdock (with a straw).
Angela was gripping a pint of Robber’s Slake, a local ale named after a highwayman who had supposedly met his fate in Creighton Mere.
‘It’s probably a load of rubbish,’ Sadie said. They had been dis-cussing the myths and legends surrounding the well, and one of these actually concerned the highwayman’s stolen loot. ‘Every village has its stories around here. If it’s not treasure, it’s ghosts, or connections to royalty. You know – Queen Elizabeth I slept here, that kind of thing.’
‘People always like stories about lost treasure,’ Angela mused.
‘What do the legends actually say?’ the Doctor asked. His eyes were innocently wide, but Martha knew him well enough to know that he was probing. She wondered what was on his mind. He hadn’t looked very happy at the well.
Angela shrugged. ‘Usual stuff. Some say it’s stolen jewels, others say it’s a fortune in gold, all allegedly taken by a highwayman in 17
the eighteenth century. On the run from the authorities, he passed through Creighton Mere and dumped the treasure down the well.
When the militia caught up with him he was empty-handed.’
‘And they were so cross they threw the highwayman down the well too,’ added Sadie.
Martha smiled, but she noticed that the Doctor said nothing. He was staring into the middle distance again, slowly sucking up his fizzy pop through the straw.
‘I think the treasure was dug up long ago,’ Angela said. ‘That’s how the Gaskins got so rich.’
‘The owners of the big manor?’ Martha recalled Angela blasting the Land-Rover’s horn outside the Georgian house on the way into the village.
‘That’s right. Jumped up nouveaux riches. The Gaskins have probably been living off it for two hundred years. They’d deny it, of course.
Especially the current incumbent – Henry Gaskin.’ She said the name as if it tasted sour in her mouth.
Nigel Carson led the way to the pub. Ben Seddon and Duncan Goode had showered and changed, thankfully, and were probably looking forward to a well-earned pint. Away from the dirt and claustrophobia of the tunnel, the excitement of the project was beginning to come back: they were laughing and joking again, still treating the whole business as some kind of lark, which Nigel found very irritating.
The early evening air was cool, and the sun was just about to go into hiding behind the church steeple as they walked across the village green towards the Drinking Hole. A long finger of light pointed across the grass towards the old well.
Nigel looked at the well as the sunlight made it glow. For a moment, he thought he saw someone standing in the shadows on the far side, watching him from behind one of the heavy wooden pillars. It was an old man with long, tangled grey hair and a beard. He watched the three of them with dark, hateful eyes and Nigel stopped. ‘It’s Old Barney, isn’t it?’
‘Get out of here, yer rotten lot,’ said the old man.
18
‘Charming!’
Old Barney took an uncertain step towards them.
‘You’re not
wanted here, you lot. Clear off, go on!’
‘You’re shaking, Barney,’ said Nigel. ‘Been drinking?’
‘Never you mind!’ Barney raised a trembling fist and shook it. ‘Just clear off, you greedy swines.’
‘Ah.’ Nigel smirked. ‘You think we’re after the treasure, do you?’
When he said the word ‘treasure’, he raised his hands and made little apostrophe gestures in the air.
Barney’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what yer want here, but yer not welcome!’
Nigel glanced around him to check that he was alone with the old man and could not be overheard. Then, very quietly, he said, ‘Let me tell you a secret, you stinking old fool: there is treasure here, all right. But it’s not what you think it is. So don’t bother yourself about it, because there’s nothing here that’s going to be any use to a gin-soaked old fool like you. Got that?’
‘You lot don’t belong here,’ Barney croaked fearfully.
Nigel feigned a hurt expression. ‘Don’t belong here? But, Barney, neither do you. You’re homeless, aren’t you? A traveller! As for myself. . . well, I have a room here at the local hostelry.’ He pointed at the Drinking Hole. ‘Which is where I’m going now. So – fancy another drink? Just a quick one? First round’s on you!’
Nigel laughed at his own joke and then walked away, shaking his head. Ben and Duncan were already waiting for him by the pub.
Old Barney was staring after Nigel with a look of disgust mixed with deep concern.
‘What did he want?’ asked Ben.
‘Nothing.’
Duncan said, ‘Poor bloke. Looks like he could do with finding some treasure himself.’
‘He’s just some st
upid old fool,’ snapped Nigel. ‘Ignore him.’
Old Barney was still glaring at Nigel. Slowly the old man dropped his gaze and turned away.
‘Come on,’ Nigel said to the others. ‘Looks like I’m paying after all.’
∗ ∗ ∗
19
There was a buzz of happy conversation in the pub and Martha was enjoying herself. There were no cream teas, but the bar did a nice line in sandwiches, so at least they’d been able to have a bite to eat. The only problem was the Doctor. He seemed unusually quiet, ruminating on something Martha couldn’t even guess at. Part of her wanted to ask him about it, but another part of her didn’t want to break up the happy atmosphere she was enjoying so much.
‘So, Martha,’ said Angela. ‘What would your wish be? If the well actually worked?’
Martha shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know, really. . . ’
‘Come on, don’t be shy. Out with it.’
‘I can’t say. It might not come true if I told you.’ Martha’s gaze settled on the Doctor’s profile once again, and Angela nodded wisely to herself. Noticing, Martha laughed shyly and sat up straighter. ‘OK.
What would yours be?’
Angela shook her head. ‘Oh, you don’t want to hear about the wishes of a dried-up old prune like me, dear. The only wishes that count are the wishes of the young.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ retorted Sadie. ‘Here’s my wish: to restore the well, open a tea room, and live a long and happy life.’
‘That’s three wishes, you cheat.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Martha sighed. ‘When you really start thinking about wishes, they get very complicated, don’t they?’
Angela grunted. ‘That’s why it’s best left to the young and foolish.’
‘But the young only ever want fame and fortune these days,’ remarked Sadie. ‘All they can think of is money. There’s a few in Creighton Mere I can think of.’