‘You believe you could fathom its secrets?’
He stood up. ‘I’ll have a go.’ He nodded to Martha. ‘Why don’t you stay here, finish your tea? I’m going to pop back to our, uh, transport.’ He flashed Jenny a smile and made for the door. ‘Enjoy the book. The bit with the squid is great.’
As the door slammed, Jenny nodded after him. ‘Your Doctor has an odd turn to him, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Martha chuckled. ‘Trust me, you don’t know the half of it.’
He ran the test using the molecular sensor pallet in the TARDIS control room, tipping a little of the fluid from the bottle into the scanning tray. It took about ten minutes to get the results, and when he read the printout the Doctor shook his head and crumpled it into a ball. Wrong. That had to be wrong. He did the test again. And then a third time.
He fished out the creased ball of paper from where he had thrown it, smoothed it out and laid it next to the two others. He put on his glasses and looked again. All identical. All wrong?
There was a way to be sure. He uncorked the bottle and gulped a mouthful.
‘Ugh.’ It was greasy, and it made his throat sting a bit. ‘Why does medicine, no matter what planet you’re on, always taste disgusting?’ Sour-faced, the Doctor licked his lips. ‘OK. Grain alcohol. Some chocolate in there too, I think. A lot of sugar. Water. And, ugh. Rock salt. Yuck.’ He wished he’d brought some of Jenny’s tea to wash the taste away.
He held up the bottle to the light, the glow of the TARDIS filtering through it. ‘This,’ he said to the air, ‘is about as medicinal as a bucket of cheese. The only thing you’ll get from this is rotten teeth.’
But if that was true, then how had Alvin Godlove used it to save an entire town from a lethal epidemic?
THREE
WHEN JENNY MENTIONED the words ‘street party’, some of Martha’s earlier good mood returned to her and, with firm but gentle insistence, she made the young schoolmarm agree to act as her guide to Redwater. Martha played the role of tourist, allowing Jenny to slip into her role of teacher, nodding with interest as she gave her a potted history of the township. Redwater was in the Colorado Territory, a long ride south from the city of Denver, and the place had got its name from the ruddy colour of the earth that bordered the thin stream running alongside the settlement. Jenny’s explanations took on a slightly stiff tone as she explained that the redness came from a preponderance of iron in the local hills. Martha smirked; Jenny was a teacher all right. She couldn’t help lecturing.
She looked up as they approached the small crowd gathered in the main street. Music from fiddles and a chorus of energetic clapping filtered out towards them. ‘This is a mining town, then?’
The other woman nodded. ‘But there’s also farmland in the valley and homesteaders out there with grain and cattle. We take up the bounty of the land as we can.’ She paused and glanced at Martha, looking her up and down. ‘Are you certain you wouldn’t like to change into clothes a little more . . . conventional?’
Martha brushed a speck of lint off her jacket. ‘Something wrong with this? It’s my favourite. Got it in a sale at Henrik’s.’
Jenny coloured a little. ‘It’s just that . . . Well, in these parts dress is sometimes more conservative than you might be familiar with.’
She eyed the teacher’s long, broad black dress and shook her head. ‘I wore something like that a while ago. Wasn’t really my style, if you know what I mean. I’m OK with my jacket and jeans.’
‘Of course,’ Jenny replied. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’
Martha’s smile widened as she imagined how the woman would react to a browse around the clothes stores on Oxford Street. ‘I bet you’d look brilliant in a miniskirt and a crop-top.’
‘A crop top,’ repeated Jenny, sounding out the words. ‘What an interesting name. Is it like a bustle?’
Martha grinned. ‘Kind of, yeah.’
Jenny was quiet for a moment. ‘The Doctor . . . Is he your patron?’
‘What, like my boss? Hardly!’ She smiled. ‘At times he might think he’s in charge, but that’s not how we work. We’re travelling companions, I suppose you’d call it.’
The teacher’s cheeks reddened in a blush of embarrassment. ‘Oh. Oh. Pardon me, I didn’t mean to pry into your affairs.’
Martha held up her hands. ‘It’s not like that either,’ she said quickly, before the other woman got the wrong idea. She let out a sigh and her shoulders sank slightly. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
A group of children ran past them, calling out a hello and Jenny waved back at them. ‘Some of my charges from the school,’ she explained.
The boys and girls ducked around the adults, laughing and giggling. Jenny explained that the kids were engaged in a game of something called ‘Pom Pom Pull Away’, but Martha soon gave up trying to follow the rules. It wasn’t just Redwater’s younger citizens who were having fun and entertaining each other; as the two women walked past the Bluebird saloon, a pair of men with bow fiddles were tapping out an upbeat song about some lady called ‘Sweet Betsy’ and, as they came to a conclusion, the crowd roared approval. Without pause, the musicians launched straight into another tune, and Martha gasped as she recognised the rhythm.
‘Cotton Eyed Joe!’ She laughed and clapped her hands. ‘I know this one! My dad used to play this every time we had a Christmas party, that horrible drum-and-bass remix version that goes on for ever . . .’ Martha trailed off as Jenny looked at her blankly. ‘Ha. Never mind.’
‘Everyone certainly does seem to be enjoying themselves,’ said the teacher, and Martha heard the wary edge in her words.
‘And why the heck shouldn’t they?’ They both turned at the sound of the new voice and saw a portly, florid-faced man with a bowler hat poised at a rakish angle on his head. ‘Today’s a celebration of life, an affirmation!’ He nodded to himself.
Jenny inclined her head in greeting. ‘Mr Hawkes, how are you?’
‘In fine fettle, Miss Forrest!’ He shot Martha a sidelong glance. ‘Have you taken in a domestic? I wasn’t aware.’ The man had a bundle of printed papers under one arm.
‘This is Martha Jones,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s a new arrival to our fair town. She’s travelling with her associate, the Doctor.’
Hawkes grunted. ‘A Doctor, you say? Well, doesn’t that beat all? We don’t see a single medico in Redwater for nigh on a year, then two of them turn up within a week of each other! What are the odds?’
‘Just lucky, I guess,’ offered Martha. Hawkes glanced at her and then looked away, back to Jenny. Her lip curled as she realised the man was ignoring her.
‘Our noble lawman Sheriff Blaine told me he’d spoken with you today,’ he continued. ‘He expressed the opinion that you were in a mode of distress and ill-ease, by his measure.’
‘I assure you, I am thriving,’ Jenny countered.
‘As are we all,’ Hawkes said, with an expansive wave of his hand, ‘thanks to the miracle of recent days . . . But no, I believe his meaning was toward your inner manner, not any outward sickliness. He said, if you will permit me to say, that you appeared gloomy.’
The teacher bristled. ‘I would have said thoughtful.’
Hawkes gave a patronising laugh. ‘Aha, and therein lies the problem! I would hazard that a fine young woman like you ought not to busy her pretty head with doubts over things that are already done and gone! Instead of searching for a rotten fruit among the bushel, why not enjoy the apples you have?’ He nodded again, pleased with himself.
‘Indeed,’ said the teacher, and she nodded at the papers under Hawkes’s arm to change the subject. ‘Is that the new edition?’
‘Certainly is!’ He unfurled one of the sheets and offered it to her. Martha realised that it was a newspaper; a masthead with Redwater Chronicle written in fancy lettering dominated the top of the page. Beneath it were the words ‘Zachariah Hawkes, Editor in Chief and Publisher’.
‘Ooh, can I see?’ Before Hawkes could prote
st, Martha took it from him and scanned the document. It was just a single sheet of rough yellow paper, with smudged lines of thick, large text.
Hawkes stuck out his chin and spoke directly to Martha for the first time. ‘I’d have my doubts someone of your persuasion could read it, let alone understand it.’ He gave a disdainful sniff.
Martha pointed at the paper. ‘You’ve spelt “Kansas” wrong, there and there. And “government”. And “illustrated”.’ She pulled a mock-sad face. ‘Would you like me to spell-check the whole thing for you?’
The man glowered at her and snatched back the paper. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he grated. ‘Clearly there was a mistake with the printing press I was not aware of.’ Grumbling, he stalked away.
Jenny sighed. ‘I apologise for his rudeness. He was brought up in the south, you understand? His family owned a plantation and many, uh . . .’
‘Slaves?’ Martha said the word without weight.
The teacher frowned. ‘When President Lincoln outlawed that barbaric custom with his emancipation proclamation, it did not sit well with some,’ she admitted. ‘One would think that as we approach the turn of the century, mankind would become more enlightened.’
Martha gave a rueful smile. ‘We can only hope.’
The other woman was quiet for a moment. ‘Martha, would you like to try something sweet? I know the very thing.’
Jenny guided her over to a stand near the general store and bought them both a piece of biscuit-like cake dipped in honey.
And sweet it was; Martha’s eyes widened when she took a bite. ‘That’s terrible!’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘No! I mean it’s terribly good! And probably very bad for me!’ They shared a laugh and polished off the treats in silence.
Martha licked the last of the honey from her thumb and eyed Jenny. She wanted to keep the mood light, but the truth was, every time she looked around and saw the people clapping, singing, and being happy, she couldn’t help but be drawn back to the schoolmarm’s grim words about the smallpox outbreak. Something about it all seemed . . . forced.
People did not get well from a virus like that overnight, not in a place and a time like this. Maybe if the TARDIS had arrived at some point in the far future, or on some alien planet, she could have accepted it – but this was the Wild West, the 1880s. People had only just caught on to the idea of these invisible things called germs that made you sick. A super-cure for smallpox didn’t exist in 2008, so how could it exist here?
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said the teacher.
‘I was going to say the same thing to you,’ admitted Martha. ‘Look, sorry to bang on about this, but what you said before, about the sickness . . .’
She nodded. ‘It troubles me, and clearly my concerns have been noted by others.’ Jenny looked in the direction of the newspaperman’s office. ‘I hate to be thought of as some kind of Doubting Thomas, but while everyone applauds our good fortune I cannot help but be worried by it.’ She gestured around at the street party. ‘All of this . . . It’s just a circus to keep the townsfolk from dwelling on the matter as I have. A few bawdy songs and some honey cake, and they forget their fears. They move on as if nothing has happened.’
‘But you can’t do that,’ said Martha.
Jenny shook her head. ‘Perhaps Hawkes was right. Perhaps I am just a gloomy soul, looking the gift horse in the mouth, finding fault with our good luck.’
‘There’s no harm in asking questions,’ Martha retorted. ‘One thing I’ve learned travelling with the Doctor is that the moment you stop questioning things, that’s when trouble starts.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Life challenges us, doesn’t it? We should challenge it right back.’
The teacher nodded. ‘I agree. But there are plenty of people in Redwater who feel very differently. They’re afraid, you see? Superstitious, I suppose you could call it. They’re good people, but they’re scared. They’re terrified that if they dwell on what happened, then somehow they’ll undo it all.’
‘They think the disease will return?’
Jenny nodded again. ‘And if it does, we will all fall victim to it.’
Martha was about to say in no uncertain terms exactly how ridiculous an idea that was, but before she could open her mouth a tall guy with a scraggly beard and a dirty brown jacket came racing up to them. He was panting hard, and he had that kind of wet-dog smell on him that people who work with animals always have.
‘Miss Jenny,’ he puffed, bobbing his head to the teacher, and then belatedly to Martha as well. ‘Miss Jenny! I’m glad I found you so quick-like.’
‘Joseph, what’s the matter?’
The man hesitated, then pivoted and offered Martha his hand. ‘Apologies, Miss, Joe Pitt at your service,’ He showed a quick flash of broken teeth. ‘Nice to meet ya.’
‘Mr Pitt owns the livery stable across from the school,’ Jenny explained. ‘Joseph, is something awry?’
The man swallowed. ‘Just came into town, passing the schoolhouse.’ He pointed back in the direction they had walked. ‘Big window at the front, it’s been stove in. Broken all abouts, Miss Jenny.’ He blew out a breath. ‘And I reckon there might be a fella inside there.’
Jenny gathered up her skirts. ‘Joseph, thank you kindly for coming to me with this.’ She grimaced. ‘This would not be the first time someone has broken in, believing mistakenly that there’s wealth to be had in the schoolhouse.’
‘I can come with and help you corral whatever roughneck might be makin’ trouble back there,’ Joe offered, squaring himself up.
‘Please do,’ said Jenny. ‘Martha, perhaps you ought to remain here.’
Martha glanced around; there was no sign of the Doctor. For a moment she considered racing back to the TARDIS to look for him; but then she rejected the idea. ‘Let’s all go,’ she said firmly. ‘Three of us against one burglar? No contest.’
FOUR
THE DOCTOR PLACED both hands on the saloon doors at the entrance to the Bluebird and pushed them open with a jaunty flick of his wrist. They flapped open and closed, open and closed, and he stood watching them, beaming.
‘Brilliant,’ he said aloud, reaching out to flap the doors again. ‘These are great! And they’re going to have such a big comeback in the 1970s, believe me. You won’t be able to walk into anyone’s kitchen without going through a set of these.’ He puffed out his cheeks and wandered into the saloon proper, taking it all in. He walked in what seemed like an aimless course, finally ending up at the bar. ‘Hello!’ he said brightly, addressing the small fellow in the apron tending the customers. ‘You know what, I’m parched. I suppose a cuppa is out of the question?’
‘Just what you see,’ came the surly reply.
‘Oh-kay,’ The Doctor scanned the blackboard behind the bartender’s head, between the big mirror and the lurid painting of a reclining lady. ‘Applejack, Redeye, Gut Warmer, Blackstrap.’ He read out the names of the various hard liquors. ‘Dust Cutter, Tonsil Varnish, Sudden Death, Tarantula Juice.’ He paused. ‘Is that made from real tarantulas? No?’ When the bartender said nothing, the Doctor shrugged. ‘How about a glass of sarsaparilla instead, then?’
The man in the apron grunted and went to get his drink. A few steps down the bar, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and black waistcoat gave the Doctor a sneering look. ‘Sarsaparilla? Maybe a glass of milk would be more to your likin’, English.’
‘Milk does a body good,’ replied the Doctor. ‘Although you’re off about the “English” thing. Funny coincidence, actually. Same accent, different stellar cluster.’
The bartender plonked the drink down in front of him. ‘That’ll be a bit,’ he demanded.
‘A bit of what?’
‘One bit,’ growled the man and he held out his hand. ‘Twelve cents!’
‘Oh, money!’ The Doctor nodded, and fished in his pockets, pulling out pieces of string, a yo-yo, a pencil, a Japanese bus timetable and his sonic screwdriver. He paused. ‘Ah. I think I may be, what’s
the term for it? Temporarily financially embarrassed.’
The bartender reached out to take back the drink, but the waist-coated man stopped him. ‘Leave it, Fess. Put it on my tab.’
The Doctor saluted him with the glass. ‘That’s mighty neighbourly of you.’
The other man picked up the sonic screwdriver before the Doctor could sweep it back into his coat pocket. ‘Strange-looking contraption. Bet it’s worth a buck or two.’
‘Or three,’ he said carefully.
The man touched the brim of his hat with a finger. ‘Name’s Loomis Teague. I’m known hereabouts.’
‘I’m the Doctor,’ he replied. ‘I’m, uh, not.’
Teague weighed the sonic in his hands. ‘Tell you what, Doc. How about you return my goodwill with a little sport?’ He nodded in the direction of a table where a group of men were sat over fans of playing cards. ‘Join us for a game?’
The Doctor lowered his voice. ‘Like I told Fess there, I am a bit cash-poor at the moment.’
Teague’s fingers curled around the sonic screwdriver. ‘Reckon this’ll serve just fine as your grubstake.’
‘That has . . . sentimental value,’ he replied. ‘I’d rather not part with it.’
But Teague was already walking away. ‘Guess you better have an affinity for the cards then, Doc.’ Loomis took an empty seat and, as one, all the other players gave the Doctor the same predatory look. Teague pushed a chair out with his boot. ‘Plant your backside, Coney. We’ll go easy on ya.’
The gamblers all smirked with harsh humour as the Doctor joined them. ‘This is great,’ he enthused. ‘I was hoping to find someone to have a chat with, and here we are, with you nice fellows inviting me over to your table.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Excellent stuff!’ There were a pile of careworn playing cards lying in front of him, and the Doctor gathered them up. ‘Um, sorry?’ he asked. ‘Before we get started . . . What are we playing? Happy Families? Snap?’ He peered at the cards and a grin burst out on his face. ‘Oh, wait, I know this game. It’s Top Trumps, isn’t it?’
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