Doctor Who: Summer Falls

by Amelia Williams

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Copyright

  About the Book

  ‘When summer falls, the Lord of Winter will arise...’

  In the seaside village of Watchcombe, young Kate is determined to make the most of her last week of summer holiday. But when she discovers a mysterious painting entitled ‘The Lord of Winter’ in a charity shop, it leads her on an adventure she never could have planned. Kate soon realises the old seacape, painted long ago by an eccentric local artist, is actually a puzzle. And with the help of some bizarre new acquaintances – including a museum curator’s magical cat, a miserable neighbour, and a lonely boy – she plans on solving it.

  And then, one morning Kate wakes up to a world changed forever. For the Lord of Winter is coming – and Kate has a very important decision to make.

  Summer Falls

  Amelia Williams

  ‘When Summer Falls,

  the Lord of Winter will arise…’

  Chapter

  1

  It was the last week of the summer holidays, and Kate was in a temper. She banged around the kitchen until her mother told her to stop.

  ‘Why, Kate, why?’

  Kate sighed. She was sighing a lot lately. ‘Because, Mother, you are so untidy.’

  Kate’s mother glanced around the kitchen, and she knew her daughter was right. It was still full of packing cases, with half-washed dishes drying on cardboard boxes. ‘I am not untidy!’ she said hotly. ‘I’m really going to get this sorted out. This morning. Probably. Now, it’s a lovely day – why not go play down by the shore?’

  ‘I would rather stay in and help you.’ Kate did not like starting one thing before another was finished.

  ‘Just… go off and have fun.’ Her mother flicked her with the one tea towel that had so far come to light.

  Kate stood outside the house. It was a pretty, old cottage with roses growing up to the thatched roof. It was all very nice, but it did not feel like home. The estate agent had explained that the old owner’s possessions had not yet been cleared out. Kate’s mother had vowed ‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon have it shipshape,’ and then done nothing about it.

  Kate sighed. She made a resolution not to sigh any more. It was not getting her anywhere, and Kate did not believe in pointless activity.

  She looked down the hill at the small town of Watchcombe, itself a jolly little monument to pointless activity. Twice a day a steam train deposited holidaymakers from the camp in the next bay, and they filled the winding streets, buying sweets and postcards and ordering teas. The beach was already scattered with families walking up and down in the sunshine, from the pontoon to the lighthouse and back – and, if they were speedy, doing it again for luck. Rowing boats set out from the small harbour – they went out a short way, did nothing much and came back. It all seemed quite pointless, and yet Kate could hear everyone calling happily to each other.

  Kate could not see how they felt. ‘Seven days,’ she thought to herself glumly. A whole week until school started. New home, new town, new school. So much uncertainty. Kate was determined to Get Something Done in the little time she had remaining. Seven days, although the bright morning was nearly gone already, so she would have to adjust it to six-and-a-half.

  Kate thought about walking into town and perhaps catching the next train. She jingled the coins in her pocket and considered this as an option. True, Minehead had a better stationers, but buying a new rough book was simply admitting that, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it, School Was Going To Happen.

  It was at this point that something unplanned occurred. It was the first in a series of unplanned events that would change Kate’s life completely. A grey cat ran across the front lawn and paused, staring at her, about to vanish into the hedge.

  Kate did not own a cat. She rather wanted one. As the cat appeared to be waiting for her, she made an exception to her rule of no unplanned activity, and followed it. It slipped nimbly through the hedge, and Kate pushed after it, with a little more difficulty than the cat, it is true. There was a moment when the branches crammed in around her and she wondered if she was stuck, and then she fell forwards, like a cork from a bottle, onto the grass. At the feet of a man.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What brings you to my lawn?’

  ‘Well,’ Kate’s mother had taught her to be unapologetic, ‘your cat was trespassing in my garden. I am returning the favour.’

  ‘That’s a fair point,’ admitted the man, helping her up. ‘Although it’s not really my cat. Cats don’t belong to anybody.’

  Kate studied the man. He was tall, thin and friendly. She caught herself hoping he taught at her new school. If he did, she decided, she’d like school a bit more. ‘I’m Kate Webster,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’

  The man laughed and bowed. ‘Then you are welcome to my grass, Kate Webster.’ The cat weaved around their legs. The man bent down to scratch its ears. ‘I say, Kate Webster,’ he offered. ‘Do your ears want scratching, too?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘Who are you?’ she giggled.

  To her surprise the man shrugged. ‘Not anyone, really. I’m just looking after the museum for a friend. I guess you could call me the Curator. How does that sound?’ He looked at her eagerly.

  ‘Not very good,’ admitted Kate. ‘Don’t you have a name?’

  ‘I’m between names at the moment.’ The man looked sheepish. ‘I am having a holiday from them.’

  ‘Can you do that?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I’m seeing how it works out,’ admitted the Curator. ‘Do you really think I need one? What do I look like? A Montmorency or a Keith?’

  ‘How about Barnabas?’ suggested Kate. It was the name of her teddy bear, and she thought more things should be called Barnabas.

  ‘Barnabas!’ The Curator seemed delighted. ‘Never tried that one. Let’s give it a whirl. Tea?’

  He led her down the side of the house (which seemed very nice, if a little boarded up) to the back, where some garden furniture was arranged around a large, striped canvas tent. The man vanished inside it, coming out with a tray heaped with cups, plates, scones and ginger pop. He rested it gently on the paving by the cat, which was cleaning itself.

  ‘Why do you keep your kettle in your tent?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s not a tent.’ Barnabas had adopted the air of a man with a great secret. ‘Inside there is my shed. It’s undergoing repairs.’

  That seemed an odd thing to say, but Kate’s grandfather was very protective of his shed. Perhaps Barnabas was the same.

  ‘I would give you the guided tour, but it’s not finished,’ he said, confirming her suspicions as he handed her a plate. ‘Cheese scone. With sultanas in. I changed my mind halfway through.’

  The cat looked at Barnabas wearily, and then sniffed the milk jug.

  Tea went rather well. Barnabas listened to Kate’s plan to Do Things before the end of the holiday and sagely suggested she draw up a timetable. He said that, if nothing else, it would take a while to do. ‘Failing that,’ he said, ‘you could pop into my museum.’ He caught the look on her face. ‘It’s really very nice. Though not on Wednesdays. I close it and spend the day going up and down on the steam train. I like trains.’

  Kate wasn’t entirely convinced.

  ‘Don’t you like it here?’ The Curator
sniffed. ‘How odd. The 1950s aren’t that bad, and this is a charming town. The kind of place you want to settle down and open a little shop with an e. I love a little shoppe. Have another scone.’

  As Kate left Barnabas’s house, the grey cat watched her go. It looked on the point of saying something, but then, like most cats, it never quite got around to it.

  Kate stood in the lane, brushing crumbs from her pullover. The church clock struck noon. She was happy that she’d achieved something with her morning. A cool breeze swept in from the sea, reminding her that summer was nearly over. She walked down the lane, wondering if she could make friends with the boy next door before lunchtime. That’d really make something of the day.

  It wasn’t an unqualified success. The boy next door was sat outside the garage, mending a bike badly. He was quite handsome, but looked very sad. His misery increased when he caught Kate looking at him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re Armand, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ the boy scowled. ‘But you probably shouldn’t make friends with me, you know.’

  ‘What?’ Kate seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘Is it because you’re Indian?’

  ‘No!’ Armand laughed. ‘They’re all right about that. No…’ He paused, sadly. ‘It’s because my father kills people.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Kate. She wondered what else to say. By the time she’d thought of something, a little too long had passed. Armand flushed, and went back to work. She stood there awkwardly, watching him mend his bike, and then went home for lunch.

  Chapter

  2

  She waited until halfway through the tinned soup. ‘Mum,’ she asked, ‘Does the man next door really kill people?’

  Kate’s mother gave her The Look. Clearly, there would be no help there.

  Kate set herself an afternoon goal. She would find out what was going on, which sent her on a mission to Watchcombe. Armand’s father worked at the pharmacy, so she decided on going there to buy soap or a fishing net. It was an old shop in the market square, its windows lined with yellow cellophane. Stood outside were two women, both giving the appearance of great bustle while standing still for a decent gossip. Kate lingered next to them, turning a critical eye to homes for sale in the window of the estate agent.

  ‘Well,’ tutted one to the other, ‘I really shouldn’t stop, as I must get some fishcakes for Arthur’s tea.’

  ‘Allerdyce is using more bread in ’em than he should,’ said the other.

  The first nodded. ‘His batter’s not fit neither,’ and she thinned her lips. ‘Not since his Lucy went away.’

  ‘Oh this town,’ the second clucked, and gave a significant glance at the pharmacy. ‘Not what it was. Not what it was.’

  ‘Old Miss Doyle is the latest. Natural causes, they said. But we know better, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the first put in. ‘No smoke without fire.’ Satisfied, she turned away from the pharmacy and trotted down the street.

  Kate went into the pharmacy, and rifled through a display of fishing nets and plastic spades. Next to this, an old dog slept in a basket. Behind the counter, a distinguished Indian man was handing a wrapped paper package to a severe-looking woman.

  ‘Your prescription, madam.’

  ‘Splendid. Thank you.’ The woman made to put it in her shopping basket and then hesitated. ‘I’m sure it’s all in order, Mr Dass, but I was just wondering if Mr Stevens would mind checking?’

  The paper bag hovered between them. Mr Dass’s smile hung in place. ‘It is precisely your prescription, Mrs Groves.’

  She did not move. ‘All the same…’

  Mr Dass’s smile lost its grip and fell from his face. With a startling suddenness, a twinkling old man burst from the back of the shop, heading off the explosion by plucking up the paper bag and opening it. ‘We’re only too happy, only too happy, Mrs Groves,’ the little man laughed, holding the pill bottle up to the light. ‘All in order. Don’t take more than two, now, will you? We can’t be too careful, can we?’ He gave her the package, and this time it vanished into Mrs Groves’s shopping basket.

  With a cheerful ‘Thank you, Mr Stevens,’ she left the shop with a tinkle.

  Mr Dass turned to his employer, his tone tight. ‘I do wish you had let me handle it, sir. There was nothing wrong with the prescription.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely not.’ Mr Stevens beamed.

  ‘There never has been anything wrong with any of my prescriptions. And…’ Mr Dass’s voice was rising. ‘And I will not have it said… that there has been any mistake on my—’

  Quick as smoke, Mr Stevens slid under the counter, and wrapped himself around Kate’s shoulder. ‘Now then, little girl, what have we here? You’d like to make some lovely sandcastles, wouldn’t you?’

  A minute later, Kate found herself standing outside the shop, holding a plastic bucket that had cost more than she’d wanted to pay, and for which she had no real use. Kate did not see the point of making something the sea would only wash away.

  She went into a charity shop, and tried to give them the bucket. ‘Never used,’ she insisted.

  The jolly woman behind the counter was having none of it. ‘That’s one of Mr Stevens’s, that is. We can’t accept it. That,’ and her tone was severe, ‘would be taking trade away.’

  Thwarted, Kate glanced around the shop. It was dingy, full of lace and candlesticks and incomplete jigsaws. In the corner was a cardboard box. The jolly woman’s beady eyes saw Kate looking at the box. ‘Ooh, that’s from poor Miss Doyle’s cottage, that is. Heaps of stuff to come from her place, my duck. Her nephew drove down just to turn his nose up at it, he did. “It’s all junk,” he told me, “and you’re welcome to it.” Terrible shame – she had a lot of local objets d’art. Your Mr Stevens, now he’d appreciate it. You have a look through, my dear, you’ll find yourself a treasure. All in aid of the Orphans of Africa.’

  Dutifully, Kate poked miserably through the box. It contained some small pottery owls glued to a pebble, a snow globe of the lighthouse, a jar of coloured sand… and a painting. At first she didn’t like the picture at all. It showed the harbour, with dark seas crashing against the lighthouse. In the foreground were two odd figures. A man was holding a bright gold ring, and a woman had a large key. Kate was about to put it back among the paperweights and souvenirs when her fingers brushed against the surface of the painting. ‘It’s wet!’ she gasped.

  ‘Ah.’ The jolly woman frowned. ‘Miss Doyle’s cottage did let in the damp something dreadful. Mind,’ she brightened, ‘if it’s in the walls, her nephew’ll have a devil of a job letting it to holidaymakers.’ Cheered by this bad news, she let Kate take the painting home at a discount, and consented, just this once, to taking Mr Stevens’s bucket off her hands. For the orphans.

  ‘Frightful!’ exclaimed Kate’s mother when she saw the painting. ‘Take it to your room and clean it later.’ She made Kate wash her hands twice before sitting her down to tea on a dining table cluttered with newspaper-wrapped plates. ‘I’ve not made much progress,’ sighed her mother. ‘I just got so tired I had to have a nap.’

  Kate’s mother’s life was ruled by naps. Good news, bad news, hard work or lack of work, all resulted in a little nap. Lately there had been a lot of bad news, and a considerable number of naps.

  Kate pushed the corned beef spaghetti bolognese around her plate and told her mother all she had achieved. Mum brightened at the news that she’d made friends, but frowned slightly when she heard that she’d talked to Armand Dass. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘I’m not one to listen to gossip…’

  Kate changed the subject to Barnabas, and her mother took a sudden dislike to her daughter having tea with strange men who lived in their sheds. ‘He sounds peculiar company,’ she muttered. ‘But then again, a lot of people who look after museums are, I suppose. Never could stand the places. All about what’s past and what’s not to come. Still,’ she considered, ‘if it fills in a morning, perhaps you should pop in tomorrow.’

  No expe
rt in art restoration, her mother sent Kate up to clean the painting with a jam jar full of washing-up water and an old toothbrush. Kate covered the painting with suds and dabbed at it gingerly.

  By the time she had finished, the water had gone from a light green to a thick black. The painting still felt wet – and her fingertips tingled. Almost like touching cotton wool.

  When Kate slept that night, she dreamed she was somehow running across the sea, desperately trying to reach the lighthouse, but the waves heaved and towered around her. And something… something dark was following her.

  Kate woke up, her heart pounding. She sat up in bed, gasping. Her room felt terribly cold and crammed full of menacing dark corners and nameless terrors hidden behind the neatly stacked crates. She was sharply aware that something was watching her… something… and her eyes fell on the window. Sat on the sill, gazing at her intently was Barnabas’s grey cat. Despite herself, Kate giggled. The cat blinked and cleaned a paw.

  ‘Well,’ said Kate to herself, ‘there’s no going back to sleep after that. May as well make the most of the night.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Kate’s mother the next morning. ‘The living room looks wonderful. Clearly I managed a lot more unpacking than I thought yesterday.’

  Kate stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll make you some breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, would you?’ Kate’s mum sank into an armchair and drew her dressing gown around her. ‘You’re an angel! I always make such a mess of the frying pan.’

  Kate found the cat in the lane. She thanked it politely. It stared at her, and seemed about to respond when a stone flew past its ear. The cat reared up and darted into a bush.

  Kate turned around. Armand was standing there.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t stand cats,’ he said. He laughed, but there was something sheepish about him. Would quite like to be a bully, but was too much of a coward, Kate decided. ‘You shouldn’t be cruel,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ She pulled the painting out of her satchel and showed it to him proudly.