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clocketpatch) wrote2012-12-02 01:50 pm
clocketpatch) wrote2012-12-02 01:50 pm
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City of Waiting Part IV
Thanks to Persiflage for the spot edits on the last few posts. So, after this point I've got two and a half chapters written and I just have to make the conclusion somewhat decent (this beign the part where I usually end up distractedly wandering off in the metaphorical fields of daisies and staring blanky into space...)
Anyway, this chapter also contains friends old and new (but mostly old), a sneaky bit of time lapsing in order to Build Suspense, and more tea.
The Baby and the Bookshop
New York City, 1965
A wooden desk against an off-white wall. A mirror and a corkboard. Piles of newspaper clippings. Notebooks and maps. Scribbles and desperate notes. White paper, black type, the scent of ink and the click-clack of the keys:
Amy stopped typing, feeling a presence hovering behind her back. She looked at the desk mirror over the rim of her reading glasses, catching the eye of the dark-haired young man hovering behind her.
"Derek, stop reading over my shoulder."
"You're technique leaves a lot to be desired today," Derek said, "You're using the passive voice. And you've misspelled responsible. Twice."
"I'll be using the passive type-writer to your head technique if you don't bugger off," Amy snapped, ripping the page out of the machine and crumpling it. "Shouldn't you be minding the front?"
"Your daughter is minding the front. I was just about to step out and do the shopping. The milk's gone off."
"Our daughter is four years old," Amy said. "She does not mind the shop."
Derek shrugged. "She seemed to be enjoying it. By the way, what's fub mean? Am I as fub as your aunt?"
Amy restrained the urge to brain him. Instead she tossed the crumpled page into her over-flowing waste bin, refusing to look back up at the mirror and Derek's smug face. He was wearing raggedy bellbottoms and a loudly patterned wing-collar shirt. He'd been wearing the same outfit the day before and Amy strongly suspected he'd slept in it.
Not that Amy could fault him on appearances. She hadn't slept much the night before and the bags were clearly evident under her eyes. Under the circumstances, typos weren't unsurprising. She'd been trying to relax a bit and Derek was barging in just for the sake of barging in.
Amy ran her fingers over the desk drawers. She could open one and pull out a crisp, fresh piece of paper. She could slot it in and start typing away. Derek could watch the front. The milk could keep on rotting. She could think.
Derek started whistling I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Amy knew he wouldn't stop until she acknowledged him.
"Do you know the meaning of responsible as well as the spelling?" Amy asked.
"Not letting the milk go off?" Derek guessed.
Amy could've screamed. She pushed herself away from the desk and stalked angrily out of the back living area into the shop proper. She nearly collided with a woman browsing the history section.
"She has customers!" Amy shouted into the backroom. "Derek, I am going to kill you."
Derek stumbled out onto the floor rubbing his stubble.
"What? There wasn't anyone in the shop when I… oh, hi," he finished as he nearly repeated Amy's collision with the bemused customer.
"I don't mind," said the woman. She was wearing a pastel dress suit. "I am relieved to know that there are adults in the store."
"Hey," said Derek, "You're English. Just like Amy!"
Amy gritted her teeth. He was being deliberately annoying. She'd explained to him very patiently that she had a Scottish accent, not an English one, and what the difference was. And, while Derek might really enjoy playing the role of blitzed village idiot, he was in truth dead sober and far sharper than he appeared. Most of the time.
The glint in his eye let Amy know that it wasn't going to be one of those other times. The moron knew exactly what he was doing and Amy knew exactly why he was doing it.
"Weren't you going down to the grocery?' Amy snapped.
"Someone's sensitive today," said Derek. "Okay, I'm going, I'm going."
He dodged off down the aisles towards the front. Amy waited until she heard the little jingle of chimes from the door signal his exit.
"I apologize," she said to the customer. "Believe it or not, some people actually find him endearing. Do you need help with anything?"
"Just browsing."
The woman paused and caught Amy's eyes. It was a meaningful look and Amy hoped that she wasn't in for some misguided lecture on childcare or sinful living arrangements. Not that the woman could know anything about her living arrangements. It was a shop. Derek could be just an idiot employee. And it was the Village. Who cared?
Except the woman wasn't browsing, or better still buying. She just kept looking at Amy like she expected something. Would she make a comment on the mini-dress? Amy'd dealt with that one before.
"Think what you want of him," Amy said, "but he does well at his job when he isn't making jokes about customers fingering the merchandise. Fine, he's a straight up prat, but he does want to actually sell books. He won't half chase you out of the store like some of the old geezers up in Book Row. And he doesn't smoke, though I suppose that doesn't count for much with most people. If you want a book recommendation or any help finding what you're looking for I'm right here. Otherwise I'll be at the desk."
The woman was smiling now. She looked like a school teacher. She also looked about the same age as Amy, or possibly younger – and she'd been thinking of her as matronly. They both had the same bouffant hairstyle, though Amy's was coming lose. Amy felt old.
"Are you aware," the woman began, and Amy thought that maybe those other booksellers who chased annoying customers out of their shops, sale or no sale, had the right idea. "–That some of the books in your store have anachronistic publishing dates?"
Amy blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You have anachronistic literature in your shop." The woman pulled a book on Central American Archaeology off the shelf and flipped it open so Amy could see the date. "1985. It is a marvellous book, but you really shouldn't be so careless with the future."
The words clicked over and Amy reacted. She grabbed the woman by the shoulder. The book fell to the floor, spine up and pages splayed. Amy pushed the woman back against the shelf.
"Who the hell are you and who sent you?" Amy asked. She kept her voice quiet and hard.
"No one sent me," the woman said. "I was only trying to share some friendly advice, but I see it's not welcome."
"You will not have my daughter," Amy told her. "You've harmed her before. I will die before you harm her again."
"We don't want your daughter," said the woman, and then she shouted: "Ian!"
A man rounded the corner. His hair was as dark as Derek's, but cut and combed properly. He wore an ambiguous sweater and trouser combo that could pass for normal in practically any time period past the invention of machine-knit clothing.
"What's going on?" he asked.
You could cut the tension with a knife, but before anyone could answer the question a small voice drifted from the front of the shop:
"Mommy?"
"Mommy's fine," Amy shouted, "Just having some grown-up talk with the customers."
Amy looked at the woman she had up against the bookshelf. Then she looked at the man. She tried to make her looks meaningful. She continued to speak quietly, trying to keep the words from drifting to the front of the shop:
"We are armed. If you leave now you won't be hurt."
"Why would you hurt us?" asked the woman. "We've done nothing wrong, only pointed out one small mistake."
Amy snorted. She tried to calculate how long it would take Derek to amble his way up the street, buy milk, and get back. Assuming he wasn't distracted.
"I'm afraid that there is some kind of misunderstanding occurring," the man, Ian, said. "I'm Ian Chesterton and this is my wife Barbara. I can assure you that we have no desire to kidnap your daughter."
"Then why are you here?" asked Amy. She was working out escape routes now. Would they be able to escape out the front, or did "Ian" and "Barbara" have backup? Amy'd given up her calculations on Derek. Either he'd come back right away because he'd forgot his wallet, or he'd be gone for half the day and odds were he'd forget the milk.
"We're on our honeymoon," said Barbara. The woman nodded at her husband who continued:
"We stumbled in while exploring the city. Both of us thought it would be a good idea to pick up some light reading material for the flight home. Imagine my surprise when I found the Terry Pratchett section. I'd thought I'd read my last Discworld novel for some time."
Amy's heart squeezed. She hadn't noticed at first, but the man was holding a copy of Night Watch. Rory's favourite. He found the combination of sword fights and time travel appealing familiar. Amy released Barbara and, not knowing what to do with her hands, awkwardly folded them over her chest.
"My husband loved Terry Pratchett," she said, "I keep them on the shelf for him. I keep hoping –", she shook her head. "Never mind. I doubt the Silence would know Sam Vimes if he smacked them in the face. Which still doesn't let you off the hook from my questions: Who are you and where are you from?"
Ian and Barbara waited patiently through Amy's ramble as if it made perfect sense. Then Barbara answered:
"Both of us are from London and we are more or less contemporary. We lost a few years getting home."
"I lost more than a few," said Amy. "What happened to you? Crack in the wall? Unexpected wormhole? If it was a mad archaeologist with a vortex manipulator you have my apologies."
"Would you believe police telephone box?" asked Ian.
London, 2016
"The records we have of your son are from the late thirties, the early forties," Kate said, studying Brian's reaction. She didn't want to be this messenger. "The majority of the letters my father received were from Amelia and dated to the 1960s. We don't know who most of the individuals in these pictures are. The only positive IDs are Amy herself and this couple." Kate pointed to the middle-aged couple. "Ian and Barbara Chesterton. Former companions of the Doctor. They're still alive."
"Why me?" Brian asked.
Kate clasped her hands over his. "We all ask that."
"No, why me," Brain asked. "Why not Amy's parents? Why would she send her messages to me?"
Kate withdrew her hands. She'd wondered this herself after becoming acquainted with the Ponds. Her father had always assumed that Amy's parents were deceased.
"My best guess is because you knew who the Doctor was," Kate said. "Because you wouldn't take it as a prank."
"A prank," Brian turned the possibility around in front of Kate. She could see him tasting the word, just for a moment, hoping for it, and then dismissing it. "I suppose I am. Amy's parents have always been a bit off. Sometimes it's like they don't exist at all. Have you read the letters then, if you've identified the people in the pictures? Do you know what happened to my son and daughter-in-law? Do you know who this man is?"
Brian pointed to the picture which showed Amy holding a baby next to a dark haired young man. It was taken inside. There were lots of bookshelves.
Kate was getting used to Brian's rapid subject changes. She shook her head:
"I have no idea who that man is, but there is no record of Amelia Pond remarrying. My father stopped reading after he confirmed that the letters were genuine and there were no security risks attached. The exception is the Chesterton letter. My father had grown used to the unusual letters over the years, when they suddenly stopped he was uneasy. He opened the last letter to find out why the mail had stopped."
"And what did he find?"
"That on July 23rd, 1965, Ian and Barbara Chesterton walked into a bookshop in St. Martin's Place New York and shared a cup of tea with your daughter-in-law. Your son is not mentioned. No explanation is given for the letters ending."
"The Doctor must've found her," said Brian.
"Perhaps," said Kate. She could make this easier, she thought. She could've opened all the letters, read them, and given Brian the summary. Instead, privacy, somewhat, was preserved and Rory's father would have the painful experience of reading Amy's notes and whatever mysteries lay inside of them. Kate took a sip of her stone cold tea. "Read the letters, Brian," she said. "If you need me, call. My personal number, please, not the office phone."
Kate stood. She wanted to stay to mother Brian, to hold his hand as discovered what had happened to his son and daughter-in-law. She wanted to know for herself the content of the letters which her father had been custodian to for so many years. But her role as delivery woman was over, the content of those letters was none of her business, and Brian's grief was his own to come to terms with. Already she'd stayed too long. Her phone had been vibrating against her leg for nearly ten minutes now. Hopefully, the world wasn't about to end.
"I have to leave," she said, pulling out her phone and checking the missed calls.
"I understand," Brian said, standing also. "Got your duty, and me mine." He nodded at the letters.
He walked her to the door and said goodbye graciously. Even asked her to stop by again, as if she hadn't just shattered his world. Outside, the wind had let up but not the rain. Kate beeped open her car lock and drove away to pick up her son. According to her voicemail, his after-school football practice had been cancelled on account of the storm.
Anyway, this chapter also contains friends old and new (but mostly old), a sneaky bit of time lapsing in order to Build Suspense, and more tea.
The Baby and the Bookshop
New York City, 1965
A wooden desk against an off-white wall. A mirror and a corkboard. Piles of newspaper clippings. Notebooks and maps. Scribbles and desperate notes. White paper, black type, the scent of ink and the click-clack of the keys:
This is the story of how a little Scottish girl named Amelia Pond came to live in an English village named Leadworth. Amelia Pond was born in Edinburgh, which is a city in Scotland. Amelia Pond lived in Edinburgh until she was five and she really liked living in Scotland because everyone had the same accent as her. She had lots of friends on her street.
Her parents loved her. Her mother even carved faces into her apples.
Amelia and her mother and father would drive out of Scotland to visit Amelia's aunt in Leadworth. It was a lot of fun visiting Amelia's aunt. She liked to paint and sometimes let Amelia play with her art supplies. Amelia's aunt wasn't very responcible Amelia's mother said, but Amelia liked her aunt. Amelia's aunt wasn't boring she was fub.
Amelia liked her aunt. She did not like her aunt's house. The bedroom Amelia had to stay in when she visited had a crack in the wall. The crack ate people. When Amelia was five and visiting her aunt for Christmas the crack ate her mother and her father and she had to live with her aunt who turned out to be not as much fun without her parents around to be responcible.Amy stopped typing, feeling a presence hovering behind her back. She looked at the desk mirror over the rim of her reading glasses, catching the eye of the dark-haired young man hovering behind her.
"Derek, stop reading over my shoulder."
"You're technique leaves a lot to be desired today," Derek said, "You're using the passive voice. And you've misspelled responsible. Twice."
"I'll be using the passive type-writer to your head technique if you don't bugger off," Amy snapped, ripping the page out of the machine and crumpling it. "Shouldn't you be minding the front?"
"Your daughter is minding the front. I was just about to step out and do the shopping. The milk's gone off."
"Our daughter is four years old," Amy said. "She does not mind the shop."
Derek shrugged. "She seemed to be enjoying it. By the way, what's fub mean? Am I as fub as your aunt?"
Amy restrained the urge to brain him. Instead she tossed the crumpled page into her over-flowing waste bin, refusing to look back up at the mirror and Derek's smug face. He was wearing raggedy bellbottoms and a loudly patterned wing-collar shirt. He'd been wearing the same outfit the day before and Amy strongly suspected he'd slept in it.
Not that Amy could fault him on appearances. She hadn't slept much the night before and the bags were clearly evident under her eyes. Under the circumstances, typos weren't unsurprising. She'd been trying to relax a bit and Derek was barging in just for the sake of barging in.
Amy ran her fingers over the desk drawers. She could open one and pull out a crisp, fresh piece of paper. She could slot it in and start typing away. Derek could watch the front. The milk could keep on rotting. She could think.
Derek started whistling I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Amy knew he wouldn't stop until she acknowledged him.
"Do you know the meaning of responsible as well as the spelling?" Amy asked.
"Not letting the milk go off?" Derek guessed.
Amy could've screamed. She pushed herself away from the desk and stalked angrily out of the back living area into the shop proper. She nearly collided with a woman browsing the history section.
"She has customers!" Amy shouted into the backroom. "Derek, I am going to kill you."
Derek stumbled out onto the floor rubbing his stubble.
"What? There wasn't anyone in the shop when I… oh, hi," he finished as he nearly repeated Amy's collision with the bemused customer.
"I don't mind," said the woman. She was wearing a pastel dress suit. "I am relieved to know that there are adults in the store."
"Hey," said Derek, "You're English. Just like Amy!"
Amy gritted her teeth. He was being deliberately annoying. She'd explained to him very patiently that she had a Scottish accent, not an English one, and what the difference was. And, while Derek might really enjoy playing the role of blitzed village idiot, he was in truth dead sober and far sharper than he appeared. Most of the time.
The glint in his eye let Amy know that it wasn't going to be one of those other times. The moron knew exactly what he was doing and Amy knew exactly why he was doing it.
"Weren't you going down to the grocery?' Amy snapped.
"Someone's sensitive today," said Derek. "Okay, I'm going, I'm going."
He dodged off down the aisles towards the front. Amy waited until she heard the little jingle of chimes from the door signal his exit.
"I apologize," she said to the customer. "Believe it or not, some people actually find him endearing. Do you need help with anything?"
"Just browsing."
The woman paused and caught Amy's eyes. It was a meaningful look and Amy hoped that she wasn't in for some misguided lecture on childcare or sinful living arrangements. Not that the woman could know anything about her living arrangements. It was a shop. Derek could be just an idiot employee. And it was the Village. Who cared?
Except the woman wasn't browsing, or better still buying. She just kept looking at Amy like she expected something. Would she make a comment on the mini-dress? Amy'd dealt with that one before.
"Think what you want of him," Amy said, "but he does well at his job when he isn't making jokes about customers fingering the merchandise. Fine, he's a straight up prat, but he does want to actually sell books. He won't half chase you out of the store like some of the old geezers up in Book Row. And he doesn't smoke, though I suppose that doesn't count for much with most people. If you want a book recommendation or any help finding what you're looking for I'm right here. Otherwise I'll be at the desk."
The woman was smiling now. She looked like a school teacher. She also looked about the same age as Amy, or possibly younger – and she'd been thinking of her as matronly. They both had the same bouffant hairstyle, though Amy's was coming lose. Amy felt old.
"Are you aware," the woman began, and Amy thought that maybe those other booksellers who chased annoying customers out of their shops, sale or no sale, had the right idea. "–That some of the books in your store have anachronistic publishing dates?"
Amy blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You have anachronistic literature in your shop." The woman pulled a book on Central American Archaeology off the shelf and flipped it open so Amy could see the date. "1985. It is a marvellous book, but you really shouldn't be so careless with the future."
The words clicked over and Amy reacted. She grabbed the woman by the shoulder. The book fell to the floor, spine up and pages splayed. Amy pushed the woman back against the shelf.
"Who the hell are you and who sent you?" Amy asked. She kept her voice quiet and hard.
"No one sent me," the woman said. "I was only trying to share some friendly advice, but I see it's not welcome."
"You will not have my daughter," Amy told her. "You've harmed her before. I will die before you harm her again."
"We don't want your daughter," said the woman, and then she shouted: "Ian!"
A man rounded the corner. His hair was as dark as Derek's, but cut and combed properly. He wore an ambiguous sweater and trouser combo that could pass for normal in practically any time period past the invention of machine-knit clothing.
"What's going on?" he asked.
You could cut the tension with a knife, but before anyone could answer the question a small voice drifted from the front of the shop:
"Mommy?"
"Mommy's fine," Amy shouted, "Just having some grown-up talk with the customers."
Amy looked at the woman she had up against the bookshelf. Then she looked at the man. She tried to make her looks meaningful. She continued to speak quietly, trying to keep the words from drifting to the front of the shop:
"We are armed. If you leave now you won't be hurt."
"Why would you hurt us?" asked the woman. "We've done nothing wrong, only pointed out one small mistake."
Amy snorted. She tried to calculate how long it would take Derek to amble his way up the street, buy milk, and get back. Assuming he wasn't distracted.
"I'm afraid that there is some kind of misunderstanding occurring," the man, Ian, said. "I'm Ian Chesterton and this is my wife Barbara. I can assure you that we have no desire to kidnap your daughter."
"Then why are you here?" asked Amy. She was working out escape routes now. Would they be able to escape out the front, or did "Ian" and "Barbara" have backup? Amy'd given up her calculations on Derek. Either he'd come back right away because he'd forgot his wallet, or he'd be gone for half the day and odds were he'd forget the milk.
"We're on our honeymoon," said Barbara. The woman nodded at her husband who continued:
"We stumbled in while exploring the city. Both of us thought it would be a good idea to pick up some light reading material for the flight home. Imagine my surprise when I found the Terry Pratchett section. I'd thought I'd read my last Discworld novel for some time."
Amy's heart squeezed. She hadn't noticed at first, but the man was holding a copy of Night Watch. Rory's favourite. He found the combination of sword fights and time travel appealing familiar. Amy released Barbara and, not knowing what to do with her hands, awkwardly folded them over her chest.
"My husband loved Terry Pratchett," she said, "I keep them on the shelf for him. I keep hoping –", she shook her head. "Never mind. I doubt the Silence would know Sam Vimes if he smacked them in the face. Which still doesn't let you off the hook from my questions: Who are you and where are you from?"
Ian and Barbara waited patiently through Amy's ramble as if it made perfect sense. Then Barbara answered:
"Both of us are from London and we are more or less contemporary. We lost a few years getting home."
"I lost more than a few," said Amy. "What happened to you? Crack in the wall? Unexpected wormhole? If it was a mad archaeologist with a vortex manipulator you have my apologies."
"Would you believe police telephone box?" asked Ian.
London, 2016
"The records we have of your son are from the late thirties, the early forties," Kate said, studying Brian's reaction. She didn't want to be this messenger. "The majority of the letters my father received were from Amelia and dated to the 1960s. We don't know who most of the individuals in these pictures are. The only positive IDs are Amy herself and this couple." Kate pointed to the middle-aged couple. "Ian and Barbara Chesterton. Former companions of the Doctor. They're still alive."
"Why me?" Brian asked.
Kate clasped her hands over his. "We all ask that."
"No, why me," Brain asked. "Why not Amy's parents? Why would she send her messages to me?"
Kate withdrew her hands. She'd wondered this herself after becoming acquainted with the Ponds. Her father had always assumed that Amy's parents were deceased.
"My best guess is because you knew who the Doctor was," Kate said. "Because you wouldn't take it as a prank."
"A prank," Brian turned the possibility around in front of Kate. She could see him tasting the word, just for a moment, hoping for it, and then dismissing it. "I suppose I am. Amy's parents have always been a bit off. Sometimes it's like they don't exist at all. Have you read the letters then, if you've identified the people in the pictures? Do you know what happened to my son and daughter-in-law? Do you know who this man is?"
Brian pointed to the picture which showed Amy holding a baby next to a dark haired young man. It was taken inside. There were lots of bookshelves.
Kate was getting used to Brian's rapid subject changes. She shook her head:
"I have no idea who that man is, but there is no record of Amelia Pond remarrying. My father stopped reading after he confirmed that the letters were genuine and there were no security risks attached. The exception is the Chesterton letter. My father had grown used to the unusual letters over the years, when they suddenly stopped he was uneasy. He opened the last letter to find out why the mail had stopped."
"And what did he find?"
"That on July 23rd, 1965, Ian and Barbara Chesterton walked into a bookshop in St. Martin's Place New York and shared a cup of tea with your daughter-in-law. Your son is not mentioned. No explanation is given for the letters ending."
"The Doctor must've found her," said Brian.
"Perhaps," said Kate. She could make this easier, she thought. She could've opened all the letters, read them, and given Brian the summary. Instead, privacy, somewhat, was preserved and Rory's father would have the painful experience of reading Amy's notes and whatever mysteries lay inside of them. Kate took a sip of her stone cold tea. "Read the letters, Brian," she said. "If you need me, call. My personal number, please, not the office phone."
Kate stood. She wanted to stay to mother Brian, to hold his hand as discovered what had happened to his son and daughter-in-law. She wanted to know for herself the content of the letters which her father had been custodian to for so many years. But her role as delivery woman was over, the content of those letters was none of her business, and Brian's grief was his own to come to terms with. Already she'd stayed too long. Her phone had been vibrating against her leg for nearly ten minutes now. Hopefully, the world wasn't about to end.
"I have to leave," she said, pulling out her phone and checking the missed calls.
"I understand," Brian said, standing also. "Got your duty, and me mine." He nodded at the letters.
He walked her to the door and said goodbye graciously. Even asked her to stop by again, as if she hadn't just shattered his world. Outside, the wind had let up but not the rain. Kate beeped open her car lock and drove away to pick up her son. According to her voicemail, his after-school football practice had been cancelled on account of the storm.
no subject
Oh really? Interesting! Ian and Barbara aren't necessarily the most obvious people to include.
Good luck with the letters.