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Human Nature - Chapter Two

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Maius Intra Qua Extra

'So...' George Rocastle, MBE, leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'How are things working out, John?'

Dr Smith had plopped down in the chair on the other side of the desk. He pulled at his collar, and grinned giddily. 'Fine... fine.'

'Only I was disturbed by something I heard today. As headmaster, I have to keep an ear out for everything, you know. Why did you venture into Upper School today?'

'It's where the boys were. I wanted to ask them about cricket. Was that wrong?'

'Not... wrong, not as such, no. But there's more of an order to life here than what's in the rulebook. Rather like Great Britain herself, we're proud of our unwritten constitution. Maius intra qua extra, you know. Pars interior ingentior est quam exterior pars?'

'Ah ...' Smith nodded wisely.

'What does that mean?' Rocastle's moustachioed upper lip quivered, then he controlled himself. 'It happens to be the school motto. If you don't know what it means, I suggest that you look it up.'

'Yes. I will. Do go on.'

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'Dr Smith, when I took you on, it was largely on the strength of a superb set of references, possibly the best I have ever seen, from the Flavian Academy of Aberdeen. Your behaviour in the six weeks that we've had you has, thus far, not matched those references. For a start, there's the matter of your hysterical outburst when you sat in on Mrs Denman's biology class - '

'She suggested that the world might have been created in six days. That Darwin's theories were unproven. I had to laugh.' Smith's happy gaze caught Rocastle's disapproving expression. 'Perhaps you had to be there.'

'Then there was the incident over the punishment Mr Challoner had prescribed for Atkins.'

'They were on a cross-country run. The boy was hurt.'

'Mr Challoner's view is that he was slacking. He completed the course twice, so he can't have been too badly injured, can he? Well, can he?'

'No, I suppose not - '

'Listen, Smith, I'll be plain. Your inteference in other teachers' lessons is bad for discipline. I've heard that your own History classes run remarkably smoothly. Why can't you let others get on with their work?'

'I...' Smith lowered his head. 'I don't know. I'm sorry if I caused any trouble. I'll try not to meddle.'

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'That's the spirit. I admire a man who knows when he's wrong. As for this afternoon's little sortie, well, it's not really done for a housemaster to enter into the personal business of his House. Bad form. I don't know how they did it up in Scotland - '

'My last headmaster, Mr Gothley, was very keen on knowing everyone's affairs.'

'Well, that's the trouble, then. You're just getting used to how we do things south of the border. The Celtic temperament's a fine thing in war. I remember a rather stirring bayonet demonstration given by the Scots Guards at a tattoo when I was a lad. However, the way of discipline and stability is our chosen path, and we do well enough with it.'

'Yes.' Smith nodded. 'I see.'

'Good man. I'm sure we shan't have to talk like this again. Good Lord, is that the time? Not on evening prep, are you? No, well then, I shan't keep you from getting back to the lodge. How are you finding it?'

'I haven't had any trouble. It's always been at the bottom of the drive,' Smith told him seriously.

Rocastle wasn't listening, thumping some papers into shape on his desk. 'Good, good.' There was a knock at the door. 'Enter.'

Joan Redfern entered. She was in her early forties, a science teacher, with an occasional strand of hair escaping from her carefully pinned coiffure.

'Excuse me, Head and, oh, hello, Dr Smith, I was just wondering if I could use your telephone at the weekend. My aunt in Grims appears to be ailing, and I'd like to discover the precise situation.'

'Of course,' said Rocastle. 'Will you be requiring time off, Mrs Redfern?'

'Oh goodness, no, it's not as serious as all that. Thank you anyway. Good day.'

She nodded to Rocastle, gave Smith a little smile, and left.

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A moment later, when Smith left the Head's study, Joan was waiting for him in the corridor, sitting on the little bench outside normally reserved for quaking schoolboys.

'Sent to see the Head, eh?'

'Yes.' Smith bit his bottom lip worriedly.

'What did he want to see you about?'

'Nothing important. I'm a bad influence. Are you going home?'

Joan stood up. 'Yes. I was hoping that you would walk me to the gate, Dr Smith. If you'd like that.'

Smith stuck his elbow out. Joan raised an eyebrow at it, and, abashed, he took his black umbrella from the coat rack and hung it there.

'I heard that you wrote...' They walked stiffly down the gravel driveway, the crunching of their feet being the only sound in the beautiful blue twilight. A full moon was rising, its surface rippling with the haze of the departing day. Its light turned the rest of the sky into a negative, expectant and shining, the first brave stars appearing over the hills. The school was an enormous dark edifice behind them, a block of shadow which suddenly started to come alive with light as, at once all over the building, prefects turned on oil lamps. In seconds, the light fluttered all over the gothic structure, filling the windows with a sickly glow.

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Smith had glanced back over his shoulder, watching as the window of Rocastle's study also slowly illuminated. 'Light...' he muttered. Then he turned back to Joan. 'Sorry. Miles away. What did you say?'

'I said that I heard you wrote. Fiction, I mean.'

'It's nothing. Stories. For children. Magic, elves, you know.' Fireflies were dancing through the trees along the drive.

'I see. Are you a mystic, then?'

'No. Well, not in the romantic sense. I don't believe in sprites or kelpies or boogens or intelligent seaweed.'

'Intelligent seaweed? My, you have an imagination.'

They turned the curve of the driveway so that the school was hidden by the trees. They both slowed to a stop and visibly relaxed, smiling at the similarity of their reactions.

Smith offered Joan the crook of his arm again, and this time, with a wry glance, she took it. 'Go on then. I need all the support I can get at my age.'

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'Why, how old are you?'

'Dr Smith! What a question!' Joan feigned a glare. 'Sorry. I'm forty-eight.'

'Well I'm - '

'Don't tell me.'

'Younger.'

'Good.'

'Why?'

'Because - I don't know, sometimes I feel terribly old. I need somebody to keep me young.'

'So what did Rocastle have to say to you?'

'He was telling me about some of the unwritten rules. I wanted to ask if he could give me a list, but that's probably the point, isn't it?'

'Oh, that man. He's a complete caricature.'

Smith waved his free hand. 'He's dedicated. He means well.'

'If he was in my class, I'd give him a good telling-off. Far too bossy. He's a ... a military twit.'

Smith stared at her for a moment, a boyish grin playing over his features. 'You don't like soldiers, do you?'

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'No. Not since my husband, Arthur, died. Let me tell you, John, if I were given the choice again, I wouldn't come here. I had to endure a very harsh interview with Rocastle, and he made my appointment feel like a charitable act on his part, giving employment to a war widow with outdated references. I felt that he was being more of a friend to Arthur than to me. But I needed to make ends meet. And there's, well, there's another factor, which it wouldn't be right to go into.'

'Ah, well, I wouldn't want you to do anything wrong because you were with me. Two heads don't make a right.'

'Two heads. What a terrible thought.'

'A monster. Like Cerberus at the gates of Hell.'

Joan laughed. 'Well, Orpheus tricked Cerberus, didn' he?'

'He didn't win, though. He looked back to see Eurydice.'

'Thank goodness you arrived. I wouldn't know what to do with myself otherwise. Our talks, our games of whist... I do believe that they keep me sane.'

'Yes.' Smith turned his gaze from the shimmering trail of the Milky Way which was beginning to form overhead. 'I feel the same way.'

'Tell me, have you noticed how odd that boy Dean is?'

'Dean?'

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Smith was broken out of his reverie. 'You mean Tim? Yes, he is a bit distant. Preoccupied. Like somebody's died.' He grimaced. 'Sorry. Shot myself in the foot. Oh no! No!'

He was visibly floundering, letting go of Joan's arm to wave his hands into wild patterns.

Joan was laughing. 'John, don't worry, it was a long time ago. I rather think I've got used to it. I don't believe I've ever heard that expression, shot oneself in the foot. Very descriptive. Where does it originate?'

'I don't know... oh dear.' Looking abashed, Smith took her arm once more. 'You're very understanding. You make everything simple. I like that.'

Joan considered. 'Well, I like the way your face creases up whenever you have to talk about anything emotional, as though it's going to be incredibly painful for everybody concerned. But you go ahead and say it anyway. Tell me, in your past - and please do not feel obliged to answer - was there any great tragedy? A... failed romance?' She saw the knotted look on his face again, and her own smile faded.

'Oh dear. I knew that I should not have asked.' Smith looked down at the gravel beneath his feet.

'No, no ... There was somebody. When I was very young. Her name was Verity. She was a brewer's daughter. We were engaged to be married.'

'What happened?'

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'She preferred a sailor. That's the thing about Aberdeen. You get all sorts. Liquorice?' He had pulled a stick of the red variety from his pocket. Joan snapped off a piece and munched it. 'That's terrible. Did you hear anything of her again?'

'Her sailor fled with a girl he met in a dance hall. That was years ago. I don't know what happened after that.'

'Didn't you offer to take her back?'

'No. Perhaps. I don't know. It's all a blur sometimes.' They'd reached the old hunting lodge at the end of the drive. Joan, seeing that Smith was uncomfortable, decided not to pursue the matter further, and changed the subject.

'We were talking about Timothy Dean. What do you make of him?' She let go of Smith's arm and watched him fumble for his key.

'Eh? Oh yes. Very precognitive. I mean precocious. Very sensitive.' Joan sighed, realizing that she wasn't going to get any sense out of Smith about this topic.

'Well, perhaps you and I could play a hand or two tomorrow evening. Would you like me to cook?'

'Yes.' Smith, still failing to open his door, turned and gave her a shy smile. 'That would be good.'

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'Is there anything you don't like?'

'Burnt toast.'

'Well, I certainly shan't risk that. I'll see you tomorrow at seven then, unless our paths should cross beforehand.'

'Good. Wonderful.' Smith leaned back jauntily on the door.

Which was, of course, the point at which it opened, he fell inside.

Joan walked off down the lane, waving and laughing.

From the diary of Prof Bernice Summerfield

That night I had one of my doldrums.

I'd picked up a copy of Le Morte D'Arthur from the cottage bookshelf. I wasn't thinking, obviously. Mind you, since one of the alternatives was A Study in Scarlet, perhaps I should count myself lucky. I could have found myself on the morning train to London, aiming for a tour of the old folks' homes. Doubtless that would have resulted in me being pursued by a bathchair and its occupant having a heart attack.

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I curled up in bed with the bit where Bedivere throws Excalibur back into the lake. When I was a girl, hiding out alone in the forest (and I have spent so much of my life alone, I've just realized that), Mallory and the like were a great comfort. I expected it to be again, and I was, in an odd kind of way, because, almost without realizing that I'd started, after ten minutes I found that I was sobbing my heart out.

I was crying for a past that had never really existed, some terribly British notion of the previous land, where things were better, and all deaths were noble, and the twilights were presumably golden. My family is British, after all, so I have a right to sob about what was lost. Loss is my heritage. Before the war that took Mum, before all the wars, before the Fall, I suppose, we were comfortable and happy and glad. And then They came, and They had some sort of big plan that We didn't really understand, and just Them being Them made us, who had been all sorts of things, into We.

Same old story, and it is full of its own terrors, and flawed, and has that terrible male triumphalism about it that causes boys to line up and be slaughtered. But it can still make me cry.

And that night it connected with my own situation, and it affected me, rather.

The night lasted about ten days.

Diary Entry Ends

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Dr Smith ignited the oil lamp, settled down at his desk and picked up a pen. He tapped his teeth with it thoughtfully.

It would have been good if Joan had stayed for dinner that night. She was different. Full of life. She made him happy in strange ways. She made him want to write.

He'd always thought he'd had a novel in him, ever since he and Verity had walked down to the shore and they'd danced on the rocks in the moonlight. She'd kissed him then, and whispered something in his ear. Both ideas seemed odd: the whisper and the kiss. He couldn't remember what she'd told him, or what being kissed had been like.

All that was because he'd got his Uppers results that day. It looked certain that he could be a teacher.

He pulled a blank piece of paper from the drawer and stared at it. Very white. Very blank.

He thought for a moment. He could show the story to Joan. She'd suggest changes, they'd work on it together. That would be good.

He put his pen to paper and began to write.

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The Old Man and the Police Box

Long ago, and far away, in the reign of Queen Victoria, there lived a silver-haired old man, who had a very good idea. He had thought of a shelter for policemen, with a telephone, so that anybody who was in trouble could call for help. And that was clever; because nobody knew what a telephone was, back then.

Because there had to be a lot of room inside the shelter; the old man invented a way to make a lot of space fit into it. Because the shelter had to be able to chase criminals, he made it so it could disappear and then appear again somewhere else.

The old man was very clever; but very lonely, and so, before he told anybody else about his invention, he used it to go exploring. He visited another world, a place called Gallifrey.

There, he found a tribe of very primitive people.

Smith stared at the paper in annoyance. It had flowed out of him, but he couldn't show it to her. Far too childish. Even for children. And where was it going? He didn\x92t even have a plot. He'd sleep on it.

He retired, extinguishing the oil lamp on his desk with an irritated jerk of the valve.

As he moved about in the bedroom of the little lodge, a boyish hand silently picked up the first page of the story. After a moment, there was the sound of stifled laughter.

Smith ducked out of the bedroom in his nightgown and cap. He glanced around the place. But all was as it should be.

All that remained of his visitor was a gentle breeze from an open window. It sent the papers scudding to the floor.

Smith retrieved them, and, shaking his head in puzzlement, went back to his bed.

'What do you think?' Greeneye had his feet up against a tree, his back to the hillside above Bernice's cottage. Hoff sat beside him, staring through a pair of advanced binoculars.

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The image he was watching was of Benny pacing her room, in blue against white, seen through the wall of the building. 'Native to this planet, a touch of Artron energy, therefore she's been in a TARDIS. Yes, she's the companion. Professor Bernice Summerfield, the subject told Laylock. Sometimes called Benny. There are a few other details in the files.' He pulled a gun from his belt. 'Coming?'

'What? No, Hoff, no! What would be the point of that?'

'We grab her, interrogate her, find out where the Pod is, and we're home before first light. What's your problem?'

'It won't work! She's a Time Lord's human assistant, therefore she must be somebody of particular qualities and abilities.'

Hoff raised his eyebrows. 'Oh yes?'

'She would resist our efforts, try and escape, all of that. No, we must do this in a subtle way.'

'You're attracted to her, aren't you?'

'Well, she has got a nice shape. For a humanoid.'

'I don't believe it. If it's got a corporeal form, you'll cruk it.'

'All I'm saying is, let me do it my way. Tomorrow.'

'All right.' Hoff slipped the gun back into his belt. 'But if it doesn't work, I'll have the hot irons ready.'