Nov. 8th, 2012 10:06 pm
City of Waiting Part III
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clocketpatchMore fic. Approx. 1300 words of it. Amy falls deeper down the rabbit hole and Brian asks a very relevant question.
The Rabbit Hole
New York City, 1961
The cab stopped in front of a recessed store sitting half-below street level. Four broad steps led down to a red door. The well had a railing around it, which was rusty where its blue paint had flaked off. Amy paid the cabbie and went down the steps.
The windows on either side of the door were filthy. You couldn't see inside the shop at all. Bright text painted onto the windows proclaimed the store to sell books – "New, Used, and Rare!" Another set of blocky, bright yellow letters read: "Free food for thought inside!" A handwritten, but enthusiastic notice on the door read: "EVERY TIME IS THE PRESENT: WE'RE OPEN ALL HOURS!" The handwriting was familiar.
Amy put her hand into her jacket pocket and felt the key. It was cold against her skin. She tangled her fingers around its cord and thought that she could almost pretend it was the TARDIS key and not just a bit of cool, dead metal.
The door had a lock, but it wasn't in use. The door opened easily when Amy pushed on it; didn't even squeak. She found herself inside a crowded and dishevelled-looking second-hand book shop.
It smelled of books, old paper and mould like every used book shop Amy had ever been in. Over-stocked shelves covered every bit of wall. Narrow passages between shelves were blocked with precariously leaning piles of books. Near the front of the shop a bit of space had been cleared and three round table set out for people to sit and read.
The tables were brightly painted – spring green, fresh orange, the same bright purple as River's blouse – and were three different sizes, with the purple table clearly meant for small children, the green table for adults, and the orange table… Amy could only guess that the orange table was so high to tie-in with the Alice in Wonderland Theme. There was a pot of tea, several mugs, and a jar of small change on the green table. Amy put in a dime and poured herself a cup.
The tea was only lukewarm, but comforting. It was the first thing Amy had put into her stomach for what felt like ages. She sipped it slowly while continuing to explore the shop.
"Anyone here?" Amy asked, but got no reply. She seemed to be the only person in the shop.
There was a rough, wooden desk by the door. She'd missed it when she first came in. It had the store ledger and cashbox on it. Amy wondered at how trusting, or how stupid, you had to be to leave that stuff out in the open. It was a different era, but Amy had travelled enough to know that something didn't change no matter how far back in time you went.
The shop was cramped, but it wasn't small. As Amy penetrated further and further into the maze of shelves she began to wonder if "the rabbit's hole" wasn't just a metaphor. Either the shop took up the basement level for half the block – in which case Amy sincerely hoped no major support walls had been knocked down to open up the space – or else the shop was bigger on the inside.
Amy's heart pounded.
Just as she was wondering if the store was actually endless, she reached the back wall of the shop. Tucked between crazy-leaning shelves was a small door with a "Staff Only" sign hung over the door knob. Amy set down her finished mug on a shelf and leaned forward to knock.
"Is there anyone here?"
No answer.
She pushed the door open to reveal a cramped and dirty toilet. Amy was about to slam the door in disgust when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Another door a little ways further down the wall.
It was blue and didn't want to be seen. If Amy looked at it straight on all she saw was bookshelves, but from the corner of her eye…
Amy pulled the silver key from her pocket.
London, 2016
"Are you alright?" Kate asked.
Brian didn't seem to be processing the information. He sat calmly drinking his tea, looking out the window at the storm blowing up outside.
Kate remembered her own father's death. She'd known it was coming; he was an old man who'd lived a rough and tumble life, refusing to stop work until he absolutely had to. The day he went into the hospice he'd told Kate that he wouldn't be coming out and that he was looking forward to a good, long rest with no one from Geneva or Peru or The Planet of the Clangers ringing up to disturb him. His plans for the afterlife included gardening, seeing Doris again, and having a drink with his men from the old days who had gone before him. Nothing to fuss about, he said.
Even so, Kate had raged and cried for days after getting the news before pulling herself together and throwing herself into her work, making sure that no bureaucratic busy bodies or militaristic idiots destroyed his legacy.
Brian picked up a biscuit and dipped it into his mug. It dissolved before he could get it to his mouth, breaking off and falling into the tea with a small splash. Brian put what remained in his mouth then stood up. He walked to the sink.
"If it is any consolation," Kate said, "the records indicate that your son lived a long life. He received his medical doctorate and helped many people."
Brian took a deep breath. Kate could hear the tension in it; the feelings that didn't have words.
"I asked him you know," Brian said, picking a dishrag up off the facet, "before they went off again. I asked him. I said: 'Doctor, what happens to the people who travel with you'. And he told me honestly. He said that sometimes they left him and sometimes they got left behind and that sometimes –"
Brian came back to the counter and started mopping up the spilled tea.
"But I knew then," he continued, "because they'd never leave him and he'd already tried leaving them behind. So what does that leave? It's simple math. But it was what made them happy."
"I'm very sorry for your loss," said Kate.
Brian set the damp towel down on the counter. He moved over to look at the contents of the bag again.
"There's letters and cards in here, but what about this?" he picked up the book. "Do I have an author in the family?
"Your granddaughter," Kate said, "Do you know anything about her?"
"I have a granddaughter…" Brian said wonderingly, flipping through the book with his thumb. Several black and white photos fell out from between the pages. Brian put down the book and sorted the photos into rows on the countertop. They were old pictures, worn and fuzzy at the edges. Most of the people in them were strangers –
A smiling middle-aged couple, a man in military uniform, a woman reading a book, a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties feeding pigeons in the park. The last photo showed Amy standing next to that dark-haired young man. Amy was holding a baby.
Brian examined the photos, frowning. He started going through the bag, looking for more pictures. He stood up suddenly and left the room, coming back a few moments later with a wooden letter opener – "thought Amy might have one in her desk," he said. Brian undid crumbling rubber bands and gently eased open decades old letters. The scent of old paper intensified. He wasn't reading, Kate noticed. Brian was systematically looking for more photographs.
There were only a few, slipped into letters and pressed into Christmas cards. Most were of Amy, the dark haired man, and a little girl. Brian arranged them on the table before looking up at Kate.
"Why aren't there any pictures of my son?"
The Rabbit Hole
New York City, 1961
The cab stopped in front of a recessed store sitting half-below street level. Four broad steps led down to a red door. The well had a railing around it, which was rusty where its blue paint had flaked off. Amy paid the cabbie and went down the steps.
The windows on either side of the door were filthy. You couldn't see inside the shop at all. Bright text painted onto the windows proclaimed the store to sell books – "New, Used, and Rare!" Another set of blocky, bright yellow letters read: "Free food for thought inside!" A handwritten, but enthusiastic notice on the door read: "EVERY TIME IS THE PRESENT: WE'RE OPEN ALL HOURS!" The handwriting was familiar.
Amy put her hand into her jacket pocket and felt the key. It was cold against her skin. She tangled her fingers around its cord and thought that she could almost pretend it was the TARDIS key and not just a bit of cool, dead metal.
The door had a lock, but it wasn't in use. The door opened easily when Amy pushed on it; didn't even squeak. She found herself inside a crowded and dishevelled-looking second-hand book shop.
It smelled of books, old paper and mould like every used book shop Amy had ever been in. Over-stocked shelves covered every bit of wall. Narrow passages between shelves were blocked with precariously leaning piles of books. Near the front of the shop a bit of space had been cleared and three round table set out for people to sit and read.
The tables were brightly painted – spring green, fresh orange, the same bright purple as River's blouse – and were three different sizes, with the purple table clearly meant for small children, the green table for adults, and the orange table… Amy could only guess that the orange table was so high to tie-in with the Alice in Wonderland Theme. There was a pot of tea, several mugs, and a jar of small change on the green table. Amy put in a dime and poured herself a cup.
The tea was only lukewarm, but comforting. It was the first thing Amy had put into her stomach for what felt like ages. She sipped it slowly while continuing to explore the shop.
"Anyone here?" Amy asked, but got no reply. She seemed to be the only person in the shop.
There was a rough, wooden desk by the door. She'd missed it when she first came in. It had the store ledger and cashbox on it. Amy wondered at how trusting, or how stupid, you had to be to leave that stuff out in the open. It was a different era, but Amy had travelled enough to know that something didn't change no matter how far back in time you went.
The shop was cramped, but it wasn't small. As Amy penetrated further and further into the maze of shelves she began to wonder if "the rabbit's hole" wasn't just a metaphor. Either the shop took up the basement level for half the block – in which case Amy sincerely hoped no major support walls had been knocked down to open up the space – or else the shop was bigger on the inside.
Amy's heart pounded.
Just as she was wondering if the store was actually endless, she reached the back wall of the shop. Tucked between crazy-leaning shelves was a small door with a "Staff Only" sign hung over the door knob. Amy set down her finished mug on a shelf and leaned forward to knock.
"Is there anyone here?"
No answer.
She pushed the door open to reveal a cramped and dirty toilet. Amy was about to slam the door in disgust when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Another door a little ways further down the wall.
It was blue and didn't want to be seen. If Amy looked at it straight on all she saw was bookshelves, but from the corner of her eye…
Amy pulled the silver key from her pocket.
London, 2016
"Are you alright?" Kate asked.
Brian didn't seem to be processing the information. He sat calmly drinking his tea, looking out the window at the storm blowing up outside.
Kate remembered her own father's death. She'd known it was coming; he was an old man who'd lived a rough and tumble life, refusing to stop work until he absolutely had to. The day he went into the hospice he'd told Kate that he wouldn't be coming out and that he was looking forward to a good, long rest with no one from Geneva or Peru or The Planet of the Clangers ringing up to disturb him. His plans for the afterlife included gardening, seeing Doris again, and having a drink with his men from the old days who had gone before him. Nothing to fuss about, he said.
Even so, Kate had raged and cried for days after getting the news before pulling herself together and throwing herself into her work, making sure that no bureaucratic busy bodies or militaristic idiots destroyed his legacy.
Brian picked up a biscuit and dipped it into his mug. It dissolved before he could get it to his mouth, breaking off and falling into the tea with a small splash. Brian put what remained in his mouth then stood up. He walked to the sink.
"If it is any consolation," Kate said, "the records indicate that your son lived a long life. He received his medical doctorate and helped many people."
Brian took a deep breath. Kate could hear the tension in it; the feelings that didn't have words.
"I asked him you know," Brian said, picking a dishrag up off the facet, "before they went off again. I asked him. I said: 'Doctor, what happens to the people who travel with you'. And he told me honestly. He said that sometimes they left him and sometimes they got left behind and that sometimes –"
Brian came back to the counter and started mopping up the spilled tea.
"But I knew then," he continued, "because they'd never leave him and he'd already tried leaving them behind. So what does that leave? It's simple math. But it was what made them happy."
"I'm very sorry for your loss," said Kate.
Brian set the damp towel down on the counter. He moved over to look at the contents of the bag again.
"There's letters and cards in here, but what about this?" he picked up the book. "Do I have an author in the family?
"Your granddaughter," Kate said, "Do you know anything about her?"
"I have a granddaughter…" Brian said wonderingly, flipping through the book with his thumb. Several black and white photos fell out from between the pages. Brian put down the book and sorted the photos into rows on the countertop. They were old pictures, worn and fuzzy at the edges. Most of the people in them were strangers –
A smiling middle-aged couple, a man in military uniform, a woman reading a book, a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties feeding pigeons in the park. The last photo showed Amy standing next to that dark-haired young man. Amy was holding a baby.
Brian examined the photos, frowning. He started going through the bag, looking for more pictures. He stood up suddenly and left the room, coming back a few moments later with a wooden letter opener – "thought Amy might have one in her desk," he said. Brian undid crumbling rubber bands and gently eased open decades old letters. The scent of old paper intensified. He wasn't reading, Kate noticed. Brian was systematically looking for more photographs.
There were only a few, slipped into letters and pressed into Christmas cards. Most were of Amy, the dark haired man, and a little girl. Brian arranged them on the table before looking up at Kate.
"Why aren't there any pictures of my son?"
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no subject
And some Beta-y/Brit-picking comments:
Near the front of the shop a bit of space had been cleared and three round table set out for people to sit and read.
three round tables were set out
It was a different era, but Amy had travelled enough to know that something didn't change no matter how far back in time you went.
some things not something
Another door a little ways further down the wall.
Brit-pick: way not ways
"I asked him you know," Brian said, picking a dishrag up off the facet,
Brit-pick: dishcloth; tap not faucet (though you've written facet, I'm assuming that was meant to be faucet!)
It's simple math.
Brit-pick: maths not math over here
Brian set the damp towel down on the counter.
It was a cloth before, so for the sake of consistency it ought to be again!