II
Spring
An extract from the diary of Professor River Song, deceased.
Earth time: fifth year, fourth month, and fourteenth day on Darillium.
Darillian alternative: roughly two and a half hours into the first night on Darillium.
Oh, my husband! It’s true that the people we love are those who drive us to distraction.
The Doctor insists on creating barriers between himself and others, particularly between himself and the people he loves. Five years on Darillium and still I don’t even know his name – my own husband. I have to call him ‘Doctor’, or ‘Sweetie’, or ‘Honey’, or ‘Loyal Subject’ (let’s make that last one our little secret though, yes?). I either speak to him as if he is a professional, cool and detached, or a child, generic and unformed.
It’s the same reason he’s never told me he loves me. Not once. Not in words, at least. Oh, he’s moved mountains for me, relit stars, sailed across the universe in a modified jeep, been chased by an angry sheep into a volcano (don’t ask), and – most impressively of all – settled down in one place, for me. I know he loves me. But he can never say it.
The Doctor knows that when he crosses those spoken boundaries, he’s making his feelings real. He won’t be able to escape from them when the time comes, as it always does for him. By never telling anyone he loves them, he’s able to carry on running and pretend he didn’t love them after he loses them. By never telling anyone his name, he can console himself with the fact that he never really knew them properly.
So, another day on Darillium and again, the Doctor refuses outright to tell me his name. But he does do something unusual – he tells me… a story.
We were sitting in our usual place in the restaurant, overlooking the towers. There’s not even a glimmer of orange on the horizon now; we’re into the night, and the stars are starting to shine. I noticed that, and stared up at them, forgetting where I was. When I looked back, the Doctor was focusing on me, giving me this strange look, like he knew something I didn’t. I knew he was up to something, and it frustrated me.
“I’ll tell you a story,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied.
“It’s about Clara,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied, patiently. You have to be patient when the subject of Clara Oswald is brought up. It can be very… difficult. For both of us.
“She used to have this book,” he began, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Something her mum would always read to her. A travel book, 101 Places to See.”
“101?” I nodded, impressed. “I don’t think I could narrow it down to that few.”
“Well, they’re just places on Earth.”
“Oh, of course.” I smiled. “How quaint.”
“After she lost Danny… and then, when we got back together…” He thought about that for a bit. I could see him thinking (bless him, it’s so sweet when he tries that). Trying to work out a way to make that sound a bit more Platonic. “When she came back to the TARDIS,” he continued, “she decided to look at the book again, and she developed this sort of… fascination with it. All of a sudden, she wanted to see those places. All one-hundred-and-one of them. We managed to tick off six we’d seen together already: we saw the Horsetail Falls before they collapsed in the twenty-second century, went on the Orient Express in space, and saw Giant’s Causeway being built.”
“Friendly bunch, the builders?” I asked.
“Let’s just say the BFG was wildly inaccurate.” His eyes flashed with terror, and I was suddenly glad I had missed that particular adventure. He went on. “We did a lot of them her way. We did this little… tour, I suppose you could call it. We travelled around the world together without the aid of a TARDIS. Most of it was quite straightforward – no awkward alien incursions – but there was one time, when we did use the ship. We were aiming for Paris…”
I found myself glaring at him. “You never took me to Paris.”
He laughed. “I never took Clara either. After the last time with Romana, it’s like the TARDIS just refuses to land. So as I was saying, we were aiming for Paris – and we found ourselves in space. Deep space.”
Those eyebrows of his did their little inimitable dance. Oh yeah, they were saying. Beat that.
“I apologised, but she was keen to see where we were. I said it was boring, you know, typical starless space, but of course she wouldn’t take that for an answer. So I reluctantly gave her a spacesuit, and we prepared to embark on an… adventure.”
Forgive the cliff-hanger, but it’s easier if I recount the rest in prose. Dialogue is a wearisome process. I’ll try not to make too many of my own snarky comments, but sometimes I just can’t stop myself. I think you should count yourself lucky. Remember, I’m an archaeologist – I could have just written a dissertation instead.
I’ve tried my best to recreate Clara Oswald, using the little recollections the Doctor has available in conjunction with my own imagination. I doubt anything I write will ever be able to capture her passion, wit, and beauty. But these stories of her are all any of us have left.
The Adventure of the Amazing Spider-Mines
“Carefully,” said the Doctor, as Clara took her first tentative step out of the box in her red spacesuit. The Doctor keeps lots of red spacesuits in the TARDIS, and the occasional orange. I’m sure his understanding of culture is limited to forty-fifth century Earth Imperialism. I try my best to broaden his perspective, but I’m not there all the time.
The Doctor, on the other hand, had let himself go. He was dressed in a lovely pair of Doc Martins and one of his best coats... with a shabby old t-shirt and a pair of trousers straight out of the nineteen-sixties. Reminds me of his second incarnation (bless him – oh, yes, we met – I showed him the proper finger motions on his recorder, if you get my drift).
He held onto the wire that connected Clara’s spacesuit to the TARDIS console, like it needed that extra bit of protection, and stood at the very edge of the ship as she drifted further away.
“I don’t know what you’re so interested in,” he complained, as he always did. “It’s just boring old vacuum out here. Even the tumbleweed has sought out a more exciting life. In fact, you don’t mind if I fall asleep here do you? It’s just that boring.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” nagged Clara. “I just want to see what this pink ball of light’s all about, that’s all. It’s only a few metres away now.”
“I told you,” said the Doctor. “Just some trapped gasses, perhaps the remnants of some sort of dead alien intelligence. Come on, we could be in Paris by now! Paris! We could get bread or something.”
“You’ll never be able to land us in Paris and you know it. Ah, there we go. The light’s even brighter up close, I’ve had to tint my visor. Can I touch it?”
“That depends.” The Doctor stroked his chin. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s sort of pulsating. I reckon there’s something solid in the centre. I don’t suppose it’s alive?”
“No, of course it’s not alive, what sort of universe do you think this is?”
“An unpredictable one.”
“Fair point. What else can you see?”
Clara inspected it closer. “It’s like… okay, maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me…” she squinted. “But I swear I can see very small tendrils coming out of it. Growing, actually…”
The Doctor’s eyes, on the other hand, had almost achieved independence from the rest of his head. “Oh no,” he said, his thick Scottish accent laden with doom. “Clara, be careful! That’s highly dangerous!”
Clara stayed exactly where she was. If anything, she moved closer. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “What does it do?”
“If it’s what I think it is, it’s a dimensional translator.” The more the Doctor spoke, the closer Clara’s fingers got to the tendrils. “We’re at a sort of… dimensional crossroads. You touch that thing, it’ll zap you into a different dimension!”
“Ah,” said Clara, but as she moved her hand away, the tendrils gripped around her fingers. “Doctor!”
The young woman turned around towards the ship, but it had disappeared. Rocks were heading towards her. The world was closing in.
Dramatic pause for effect.
***
Okay. The classic Doctor/Clara separation. It happened every so often, as it did with all his companions. They’d be driven apart by evil forces. Maybe one would be trapped in a base full of astronauts (from the Human Empire, obviously). Maybe the other would be lost at sea. The rest would work in phases.
Phase 1: Angst. In the general case, the Doctor would mope like a puppy-dog, staring out of a spaceship porthole (if he was stuck on a spaceship, if not he’d make one up in his head), whispering the name of [Insert Companion Here] with a soft and regretful ‘Oh…’. In the case of this particular incarnation, the angst would be projected onto whichever poor souls were stuck with him. He’d make comments on their brain size, their narrow-mindedness, their short lifespans, the trivialness of their passions, the shallowness of their relationships. Then would come one brief but heartfelt comment about how much he cared about Clara Oswald.
Phase 2: Solution. In the general case, the Doctor would create an ingenious plan to rescue his companion, destroy the forces of evil, keep everyone else safe and upset as many local authorities as possible. In the case of this particular incarnation, the Doctor would run in circles whilst Clara Oswald, half a million miles away, came up with the plan single-handedly and saved the Doctor. That was handy, because she was altogether better at the whole ‘Saving The Day’ thing than him, and it meant I wasn’t required to turn up in a trans-temporal ice cream van and help him out when he got stuck.
Phase 3: Reunion. In the general case, a lot of hugging. In the case of this particular incarnation, hugging dispersed with frowning. In all cases, it would end in a promise never to do that again which would invariably be broken within twenty-four hours.
Lovely! Three simple steps to understanding your typical Doctor/companion relationship, which is published in less colloquial terms in one of my most highly-regarded academic works, Non-Linear Archaeology: Understanding the Processes of Time Lord Intervention in Altered History, available to order through the University of Enceladus Intergalactic Library.
Back to the story then – Clara’s just been grabbed by pink tendrils, seen what she believes to be rocks flying towards her (this is in reality an unreliable perspective – merely the effects of space warping around her as she shifts dimensions). As indicated by the parenthesis, Clara is now trapped in another dimension.
“Doctor!” cried Clara. “Doctor!” Her helmet crackled back to life, so slowly, and the voice of the Doctor returned, a little more muffled but still just about audible.
“Clara! Thank God, the TARDIS has re-rooted our connection. Listen, we might not have long, I need you to describe where you are.”
“Um…” Clara looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dark. She wished she had eaten more carrots in her childhood, and wondered whether that particular myth had any grounds in reality. “I’m in some sort of cave by the looks of it. Lots of… rocks. I can see something reflective.” She took a step forward. “Some sort of pool, yeah, and some crystals on the walls… the rocks seem very loose too.”
The Doctor took a deep breath. “Clara. Stay very clam, try not to move, and tell me what you can smell.”
Clara frowned. “Actually, I can smell something, even through the helmet. Like… a strong sort of cinnamon smell, maybe a whiff of ginger.” She grinned. “Is this Santa’s actual grotto?”
The Doctor rolled his eyes, and Clara was sure she could hear it. “No, Clara, you’re surrounded by spider-mines.”
“Say… what?”
“I’ll put it in simple terms for you because your brain is smaller than mine.”
“Ooh,” Clara winced. “Somebody’s compensating.”
“There’s a Big Mummy Spider,” said the Doctor, ignoring that remark. “Big Mummy Spider is old and doesn’t like moving around very much, so she hides herself away in this dimension, lures people in with that little pink light that fooled you. There are mines all around you – smaller baby spiders who will be awoken the second you step on their rock. They’ll drag you down into Big Mummy Spider’s lair. Also, there’s other dangerous stuff, but don’t worry about that for now.”
“Okay. Thanks for that.”
“Unhook your torch,” instructed the Doctor. “How many rocks can you see?”
“Like… twenty? And there’s a spider waiting under any of them, right, okay.”
“You need to identify which have spiders. Reach into your pocket.” The Doctor waited. “Found the marbles yet?”
“Why do you keep marbles in y-”
“-question for another day; there should be enough marbles to cover each rock. This’ll be a test of your aim, Clara Oswald. Don’t miss. If a marble hits a mine, the rock will sink. It will make the whole task of not getting killed considerably easier for you.”
“This may be a slight challenge. But then, you know, I am a taekwondo expert.”
“These are marbles.”
“As I say, a challenge. How long have we got?”
The line went quiet.
“…hello?” asked Clara. “Anyone home? Please don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen asleep there.”
“Clara,” came back a whisper, “we’re in even bigger trouble than I first suspected. First off, we weren’t in Deep Space like I thought – we’re surrounded by invisible trenches on either side, and I think I may have just accidentally declared war on one of them.”
“WHAT?!”
“I got my sign language a bit muddled. Secondly, I’ve just remembered, the marbles you have may be very slightly… explosive. Which does complicate things, somewhat.”
“Just a bit, yeah…”
“We need to hurry up. I can see a battle fleet heading my way. No, wait, two battle-fleets. Hang on, you’re going to have to hold the line, someone’s calling me. I’ll be right back...”
Clara shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Aaand now for the solution.”
***
The Doctor smiled enigmatically.
“Oh, come on,” I complained, taking a sip of my champagne, “you can’t leave it there! What is it with you and cliff-hangers?”
“It’s not that. The rest just isn’t important. Fairly predictable – I devise a plan…”
“Don’t you mean, ‘Clara devised a plan’?”
“Okay,” admitted the Doctor. “Clara devised a plan. But I helped. And I was the one who single-handedly managed to save the Velosians and fight off four and a bit battle fleets.”
“The same battle fleets which you had accidentally declared war on,” I added, decidedly unimpressed.
“Fine.” He held his hands up, an admission of guilt. “It was a bit messy, but you know, we didn’t do badly between us.”
I smiled. “I suppose you didn’t. What happened next?”
“We got captured by Vikings.” He noticed the look on my face. “I know, I know, it was one of those days. Then it was Clara’s turn to declare war – well, sort of – and I – yes, I – managed to devise a plan to save the whole useless bunch of them from their own barbarous god.”
I nodded. “Not bad.”
“But it was what happened after…” The Doctor looked solemnly toward the Singing Towers. "We had a conversation, Clara and I, and I remembered it. Yesterday. One of the first conversations between us I’ve been able to remember, I lay awake all night trying to piece it together. I can even remember her voice, almost…”
“Go on,” I prompted.
***
Phase 3: Reunion. Only this time, it was different. It had been a long adventure, and there they were, finally out of urgent topics to discuss. Always a precarious time in the TARDIS, that, when you’re at a loose end.
The Doctor and Clara were different from the others. They’d talk things over. They worked better that way. When Clara didn’t like the Doctor’s solution to the moral dilemma of the day, she’d tell him. When the Doctor thought Clara needed a break, he’d tell her. For two people who started off very cold towards each other, it always sounded to me like they grew into something beautiful. The man who went around fighting monsters and upsetting people while she hopelessly apologised for him turned into a scruffily-dressed softie who sat thoughtfully strumming his guitar while he poured out his heart. I’m aware of that. I’m aware that I have Clara Oswald to thank for the man my husband is today.
And yet sometimes I get jealous. Sometimes I feel like the Doctor loved – or at least trusted – Clara more than he does me. I know he told Clara things he’s never told me. I know he let down those barriers and showed her sides to himself which he’d never dream of showing me. And because he can’t remember her anymore, he’ll never be able to tell me why.
So they did the hugging. The Doctor did a bit of frowning. Then he sat on the stairs, and buried his head in his hands, and said out of nowhere:
“Do you want to live, Clara?”
Clara, as you would expect, didn’t know how to take that one. She thought about it, which now I think about it is a worrying response to that question.
“Yes,” she decided, finally. “Why did you ask?”
“Because the spiders aren’t psychic, Clara. They don’t lure, not really. You reached out for that light when I told you it was dangerous, like you just wanted to see what would happen. This has been happening for so long and I keep ignoring it…”
“What’s been happening for so long?”
“You. Putting your life on the line, gambling with it, like you’re not sure whether you want it or not. What I said to you earlier, that I’m worried one day something will happen to you, I mean that-“
“-and what I said to you the other day,” interrupted Clara, “that you gave me a reason to, to be, you know what that means don’t you? I thought I couldn’t carry on after I lost Danny, after I thought I’d lost you. I don’t even know if I…” she looked to the floor. “If I would have carried on. When I started travelling with you again on Christmas morning, all of a sudden it was like I’d been reborn. I opened that book and it was magical again. You’re… my reason for carrying on. You know that, right?”
The Doctor was silent. Thoughtful. Looking the other way.
“Yeah,” carried on Clara, “sometimes I throw myself into danger. Sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting for it all to consume me. I know you’re going to say I need help, because I think like that, but what help can you really give someone? My boyfriend flew away. He flew away into the sky and killed himself in front of me, and when he was given a chance to come back to me, when I reached out and depended on that last hope, he sent through a kid that I didn’t even recognise. So, sometimes I feel like I don’t want to carry on, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I won’t carry on.”
“I know.” The Doctor nodded, his voice loosening up a bit. “I know. I just wanted to tell you that it matters to me. If something did happen to you, I…” he shrugged. “I don’t think I could carry on.”
Clara thought to herself briefly, focused on something behind the Doctor, and spoke rhythmically:
“I can’t describe it. When I whip round to stare it straight in the eye, it’s not there. But believe me, if there’s one thing I know for sure, I know that the worry’s there.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t let your worries about me eat away at our time together, Doctor. Appreciate what we have, okay?” There was nothing malicious in her voice. She stood up.
“That’s an awful poem,” responded my stupid husband, with the tact of an eight-year-old.
“It’s Carol Ann Duffy,” laughed Clara, taking it all in good nature. “I suppose you’ve always preferred the classic poets. But she’s a grumpy old Scottish woman, so maybe you two might hit it off in person.”
“Maybe.” The Doctor jumped up, animated again. “Paris?”
“Let’s aim for Paris,” decided Clara, and turned to the Doctor with a smirk. “If you’re lucky, we might even reach Sydney.”
***
“And the worst part is, I can’t even be sure that the conversation happened. We all say things in our heads, things that we want to say, but we don’t always say them. Maybe I imagined it, maybe I dreamed it. Maybe I wished I’d said it so much that I started to believe it.” The Doctor sat back again, frustratingly continuing to avoid eye contact. “Loss is a complicated business. I’ve lost two things – my best friend and my memories of her. Which means I have twice the amount of regrets.”
I had to be pragmatic. That’s what people like the Doctor need. Contrary to his beliefs, he’s an emotional man at heart.
“What are you going to do about it, then?”
At last, he looked at me.
“I’m not going to make the same mistakes again.” He kept his eyes on me, and reached out, gesturing for me to take his hands, which I did. He leant forward, careful to avoid the candle at the centre of the table. At first I thought he was going to kiss me – that was how our dinners usually ended – but he did something far more remarkable.
As the towers began to sing again, a tune so resonant that it passed over the restaurant like the last breezes of early spring, the Doctor whispered a word in my ear.
The word didn’t need an explanation. It didn’t need validation, or context, or time for consideration. I didn’t have to check, and I didn’t have to doubt. The word spoke for itself, defined itself, proclaimed itself louder than the song of those two great monoliths in front of me.
I was so glad. So glad to be alive, so glad to have met this man, so glad to have ended up here by his side, and so thankful for Clara Oswald, the woman who pushed him to do the unthinkable, to speak the unutterable. She never got in my way at all, I realised. She just helped him to love me, and the rest of the universe, a little bit more.
I leaned forward again, and kissed him, meaning it. My husband had just told me his name. I hope this night never ends.
Part III >
Earth time: fifth year, fourth month, and fourteenth day on Darillium.
Darillian alternative: roughly two and a half hours into the first night on Darillium.
Oh, my husband! It’s true that the people we love are those who drive us to distraction.
The Doctor insists on creating barriers between himself and others, particularly between himself and the people he loves. Five years on Darillium and still I don’t even know his name – my own husband. I have to call him ‘Doctor’, or ‘Sweetie’, or ‘Honey’, or ‘Loyal Subject’ (let’s make that last one our little secret though, yes?). I either speak to him as if he is a professional, cool and detached, or a child, generic and unformed.
It’s the same reason he’s never told me he loves me. Not once. Not in words, at least. Oh, he’s moved mountains for me, relit stars, sailed across the universe in a modified jeep, been chased by an angry sheep into a volcano (don’t ask), and – most impressively of all – settled down in one place, for me. I know he loves me. But he can never say it.
The Doctor knows that when he crosses those spoken boundaries, he’s making his feelings real. He won’t be able to escape from them when the time comes, as it always does for him. By never telling anyone he loves them, he’s able to carry on running and pretend he didn’t love them after he loses them. By never telling anyone his name, he can console himself with the fact that he never really knew them properly.
So, another day on Darillium and again, the Doctor refuses outright to tell me his name. But he does do something unusual – he tells me… a story.
We were sitting in our usual place in the restaurant, overlooking the towers. There’s not even a glimmer of orange on the horizon now; we’re into the night, and the stars are starting to shine. I noticed that, and stared up at them, forgetting where I was. When I looked back, the Doctor was focusing on me, giving me this strange look, like he knew something I didn’t. I knew he was up to something, and it frustrated me.
“I’ll tell you a story,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied.
“It’s about Clara,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied, patiently. You have to be patient when the subject of Clara Oswald is brought up. It can be very… difficult. For both of us.
“She used to have this book,” he began, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Something her mum would always read to her. A travel book, 101 Places to See.”
“101?” I nodded, impressed. “I don’t think I could narrow it down to that few.”
“Well, they’re just places on Earth.”
“Oh, of course.” I smiled. “How quaint.”
“After she lost Danny… and then, when we got back together…” He thought about that for a bit. I could see him thinking (bless him, it’s so sweet when he tries that). Trying to work out a way to make that sound a bit more Platonic. “When she came back to the TARDIS,” he continued, “she decided to look at the book again, and she developed this sort of… fascination with it. All of a sudden, she wanted to see those places. All one-hundred-and-one of them. We managed to tick off six we’d seen together already: we saw the Horsetail Falls before they collapsed in the twenty-second century, went on the Orient Express in space, and saw Giant’s Causeway being built.”
“Friendly bunch, the builders?” I asked.
“Let’s just say the BFG was wildly inaccurate.” His eyes flashed with terror, and I was suddenly glad I had missed that particular adventure. He went on. “We did a lot of them her way. We did this little… tour, I suppose you could call it. We travelled around the world together without the aid of a TARDIS. Most of it was quite straightforward – no awkward alien incursions – but there was one time, when we did use the ship. We were aiming for Paris…”
I found myself glaring at him. “You never took me to Paris.”
He laughed. “I never took Clara either. After the last time with Romana, it’s like the TARDIS just refuses to land. So as I was saying, we were aiming for Paris – and we found ourselves in space. Deep space.”
Those eyebrows of his did their little inimitable dance. Oh yeah, they were saying. Beat that.
“I apologised, but she was keen to see where we were. I said it was boring, you know, typical starless space, but of course she wouldn’t take that for an answer. So I reluctantly gave her a spacesuit, and we prepared to embark on an… adventure.”
Forgive the cliff-hanger, but it’s easier if I recount the rest in prose. Dialogue is a wearisome process. I’ll try not to make too many of my own snarky comments, but sometimes I just can’t stop myself. I think you should count yourself lucky. Remember, I’m an archaeologist – I could have just written a dissertation instead.
I’ve tried my best to recreate Clara Oswald, using the little recollections the Doctor has available in conjunction with my own imagination. I doubt anything I write will ever be able to capture her passion, wit, and beauty. But these stories of her are all any of us have left.
The Adventure of the Amazing Spider-Mines
“Carefully,” said the Doctor, as Clara took her first tentative step out of the box in her red spacesuit. The Doctor keeps lots of red spacesuits in the TARDIS, and the occasional orange. I’m sure his understanding of culture is limited to forty-fifth century Earth Imperialism. I try my best to broaden his perspective, but I’m not there all the time.
The Doctor, on the other hand, had let himself go. He was dressed in a lovely pair of Doc Martins and one of his best coats... with a shabby old t-shirt and a pair of trousers straight out of the nineteen-sixties. Reminds me of his second incarnation (bless him – oh, yes, we met – I showed him the proper finger motions on his recorder, if you get my drift).
He held onto the wire that connected Clara’s spacesuit to the TARDIS console, like it needed that extra bit of protection, and stood at the very edge of the ship as she drifted further away.
“I don’t know what you’re so interested in,” he complained, as he always did. “It’s just boring old vacuum out here. Even the tumbleweed has sought out a more exciting life. In fact, you don’t mind if I fall asleep here do you? It’s just that boring.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” nagged Clara. “I just want to see what this pink ball of light’s all about, that’s all. It’s only a few metres away now.”
“I told you,” said the Doctor. “Just some trapped gasses, perhaps the remnants of some sort of dead alien intelligence. Come on, we could be in Paris by now! Paris! We could get bread or something.”
“You’ll never be able to land us in Paris and you know it. Ah, there we go. The light’s even brighter up close, I’ve had to tint my visor. Can I touch it?”
“That depends.” The Doctor stroked his chin. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s sort of pulsating. I reckon there’s something solid in the centre. I don’t suppose it’s alive?”
“No, of course it’s not alive, what sort of universe do you think this is?”
“An unpredictable one.”
“Fair point. What else can you see?”
Clara inspected it closer. “It’s like… okay, maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me…” she squinted. “But I swear I can see very small tendrils coming out of it. Growing, actually…”
The Doctor’s eyes, on the other hand, had almost achieved independence from the rest of his head. “Oh no,” he said, his thick Scottish accent laden with doom. “Clara, be careful! That’s highly dangerous!”
Clara stayed exactly where she was. If anything, she moved closer. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “What does it do?”
“If it’s what I think it is, it’s a dimensional translator.” The more the Doctor spoke, the closer Clara’s fingers got to the tendrils. “We’re at a sort of… dimensional crossroads. You touch that thing, it’ll zap you into a different dimension!”
“Ah,” said Clara, but as she moved her hand away, the tendrils gripped around her fingers. “Doctor!”
The young woman turned around towards the ship, but it had disappeared. Rocks were heading towards her. The world was closing in.
Dramatic pause for effect.
***
Okay. The classic Doctor/Clara separation. It happened every so often, as it did with all his companions. They’d be driven apart by evil forces. Maybe one would be trapped in a base full of astronauts (from the Human Empire, obviously). Maybe the other would be lost at sea. The rest would work in phases.
Phase 1: Angst. In the general case, the Doctor would mope like a puppy-dog, staring out of a spaceship porthole (if he was stuck on a spaceship, if not he’d make one up in his head), whispering the name of [Insert Companion Here] with a soft and regretful ‘Oh…’. In the case of this particular incarnation, the angst would be projected onto whichever poor souls were stuck with him. He’d make comments on their brain size, their narrow-mindedness, their short lifespans, the trivialness of their passions, the shallowness of their relationships. Then would come one brief but heartfelt comment about how much he cared about Clara Oswald.
Phase 2: Solution. In the general case, the Doctor would create an ingenious plan to rescue his companion, destroy the forces of evil, keep everyone else safe and upset as many local authorities as possible. In the case of this particular incarnation, the Doctor would run in circles whilst Clara Oswald, half a million miles away, came up with the plan single-handedly and saved the Doctor. That was handy, because she was altogether better at the whole ‘Saving The Day’ thing than him, and it meant I wasn’t required to turn up in a trans-temporal ice cream van and help him out when he got stuck.
Phase 3: Reunion. In the general case, a lot of hugging. In the case of this particular incarnation, hugging dispersed with frowning. In all cases, it would end in a promise never to do that again which would invariably be broken within twenty-four hours.
Lovely! Three simple steps to understanding your typical Doctor/companion relationship, which is published in less colloquial terms in one of my most highly-regarded academic works, Non-Linear Archaeology: Understanding the Processes of Time Lord Intervention in Altered History, available to order through the University of Enceladus Intergalactic Library.
Back to the story then – Clara’s just been grabbed by pink tendrils, seen what she believes to be rocks flying towards her (this is in reality an unreliable perspective – merely the effects of space warping around her as she shifts dimensions). As indicated by the parenthesis, Clara is now trapped in another dimension.
“Doctor!” cried Clara. “Doctor!” Her helmet crackled back to life, so slowly, and the voice of the Doctor returned, a little more muffled but still just about audible.
“Clara! Thank God, the TARDIS has re-rooted our connection. Listen, we might not have long, I need you to describe where you are.”
“Um…” Clara looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dark. She wished she had eaten more carrots in her childhood, and wondered whether that particular myth had any grounds in reality. “I’m in some sort of cave by the looks of it. Lots of… rocks. I can see something reflective.” She took a step forward. “Some sort of pool, yeah, and some crystals on the walls… the rocks seem very loose too.”
The Doctor took a deep breath. “Clara. Stay very clam, try not to move, and tell me what you can smell.”
Clara frowned. “Actually, I can smell something, even through the helmet. Like… a strong sort of cinnamon smell, maybe a whiff of ginger.” She grinned. “Is this Santa’s actual grotto?”
The Doctor rolled his eyes, and Clara was sure she could hear it. “No, Clara, you’re surrounded by spider-mines.”
“Say… what?”
“I’ll put it in simple terms for you because your brain is smaller than mine.”
“Ooh,” Clara winced. “Somebody’s compensating.”
“There’s a Big Mummy Spider,” said the Doctor, ignoring that remark. “Big Mummy Spider is old and doesn’t like moving around very much, so she hides herself away in this dimension, lures people in with that little pink light that fooled you. There are mines all around you – smaller baby spiders who will be awoken the second you step on their rock. They’ll drag you down into Big Mummy Spider’s lair. Also, there’s other dangerous stuff, but don’t worry about that for now.”
“Okay. Thanks for that.”
“Unhook your torch,” instructed the Doctor. “How many rocks can you see?”
“Like… twenty? And there’s a spider waiting under any of them, right, okay.”
“You need to identify which have spiders. Reach into your pocket.” The Doctor waited. “Found the marbles yet?”
“Why do you keep marbles in y-”
“-question for another day; there should be enough marbles to cover each rock. This’ll be a test of your aim, Clara Oswald. Don’t miss. If a marble hits a mine, the rock will sink. It will make the whole task of not getting killed considerably easier for you.”
“This may be a slight challenge. But then, you know, I am a taekwondo expert.”
“These are marbles.”
“As I say, a challenge. How long have we got?”
The line went quiet.
“…hello?” asked Clara. “Anyone home? Please don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen asleep there.”
“Clara,” came back a whisper, “we’re in even bigger trouble than I first suspected. First off, we weren’t in Deep Space like I thought – we’re surrounded by invisible trenches on either side, and I think I may have just accidentally declared war on one of them.”
“WHAT?!”
“I got my sign language a bit muddled. Secondly, I’ve just remembered, the marbles you have may be very slightly… explosive. Which does complicate things, somewhat.”
“Just a bit, yeah…”
“We need to hurry up. I can see a battle fleet heading my way. No, wait, two battle-fleets. Hang on, you’re going to have to hold the line, someone’s calling me. I’ll be right back...”
Clara shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Aaand now for the solution.”
***
The Doctor smiled enigmatically.
“Oh, come on,” I complained, taking a sip of my champagne, “you can’t leave it there! What is it with you and cliff-hangers?”
“It’s not that. The rest just isn’t important. Fairly predictable – I devise a plan…”
“Don’t you mean, ‘Clara devised a plan’?”
“Okay,” admitted the Doctor. “Clara devised a plan. But I helped. And I was the one who single-handedly managed to save the Velosians and fight off four and a bit battle fleets.”
“The same battle fleets which you had accidentally declared war on,” I added, decidedly unimpressed.
“Fine.” He held his hands up, an admission of guilt. “It was a bit messy, but you know, we didn’t do badly between us.”
I smiled. “I suppose you didn’t. What happened next?”
“We got captured by Vikings.” He noticed the look on my face. “I know, I know, it was one of those days. Then it was Clara’s turn to declare war – well, sort of – and I – yes, I – managed to devise a plan to save the whole useless bunch of them from their own barbarous god.”
I nodded. “Not bad.”
“But it was what happened after…” The Doctor looked solemnly toward the Singing Towers. "We had a conversation, Clara and I, and I remembered it. Yesterday. One of the first conversations between us I’ve been able to remember, I lay awake all night trying to piece it together. I can even remember her voice, almost…”
“Go on,” I prompted.
***
Phase 3: Reunion. Only this time, it was different. It had been a long adventure, and there they were, finally out of urgent topics to discuss. Always a precarious time in the TARDIS, that, when you’re at a loose end.
The Doctor and Clara were different from the others. They’d talk things over. They worked better that way. When Clara didn’t like the Doctor’s solution to the moral dilemma of the day, she’d tell him. When the Doctor thought Clara needed a break, he’d tell her. For two people who started off very cold towards each other, it always sounded to me like they grew into something beautiful. The man who went around fighting monsters and upsetting people while she hopelessly apologised for him turned into a scruffily-dressed softie who sat thoughtfully strumming his guitar while he poured out his heart. I’m aware of that. I’m aware that I have Clara Oswald to thank for the man my husband is today.
And yet sometimes I get jealous. Sometimes I feel like the Doctor loved – or at least trusted – Clara more than he does me. I know he told Clara things he’s never told me. I know he let down those barriers and showed her sides to himself which he’d never dream of showing me. And because he can’t remember her anymore, he’ll never be able to tell me why.
So they did the hugging. The Doctor did a bit of frowning. Then he sat on the stairs, and buried his head in his hands, and said out of nowhere:
“Do you want to live, Clara?”
Clara, as you would expect, didn’t know how to take that one. She thought about it, which now I think about it is a worrying response to that question.
“Yes,” she decided, finally. “Why did you ask?”
“Because the spiders aren’t psychic, Clara. They don’t lure, not really. You reached out for that light when I told you it was dangerous, like you just wanted to see what would happen. This has been happening for so long and I keep ignoring it…”
“What’s been happening for so long?”
“You. Putting your life on the line, gambling with it, like you’re not sure whether you want it or not. What I said to you earlier, that I’m worried one day something will happen to you, I mean that-“
“-and what I said to you the other day,” interrupted Clara, “that you gave me a reason to, to be, you know what that means don’t you? I thought I couldn’t carry on after I lost Danny, after I thought I’d lost you. I don’t even know if I…” she looked to the floor. “If I would have carried on. When I started travelling with you again on Christmas morning, all of a sudden it was like I’d been reborn. I opened that book and it was magical again. You’re… my reason for carrying on. You know that, right?”
The Doctor was silent. Thoughtful. Looking the other way.
“Yeah,” carried on Clara, “sometimes I throw myself into danger. Sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting for it all to consume me. I know you’re going to say I need help, because I think like that, but what help can you really give someone? My boyfriend flew away. He flew away into the sky and killed himself in front of me, and when he was given a chance to come back to me, when I reached out and depended on that last hope, he sent through a kid that I didn’t even recognise. So, sometimes I feel like I don’t want to carry on, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I won’t carry on.”
“I know.” The Doctor nodded, his voice loosening up a bit. “I know. I just wanted to tell you that it matters to me. If something did happen to you, I…” he shrugged. “I don’t think I could carry on.”
Clara thought to herself briefly, focused on something behind the Doctor, and spoke rhythmically:
“I can’t describe it. When I whip round to stare it straight in the eye, it’s not there. But believe me, if there’s one thing I know for sure, I know that the worry’s there.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t let your worries about me eat away at our time together, Doctor. Appreciate what we have, okay?” There was nothing malicious in her voice. She stood up.
“That’s an awful poem,” responded my stupid husband, with the tact of an eight-year-old.
“It’s Carol Ann Duffy,” laughed Clara, taking it all in good nature. “I suppose you’ve always preferred the classic poets. But she’s a grumpy old Scottish woman, so maybe you two might hit it off in person.”
“Maybe.” The Doctor jumped up, animated again. “Paris?”
“Let’s aim for Paris,” decided Clara, and turned to the Doctor with a smirk. “If you’re lucky, we might even reach Sydney.”
***
“And the worst part is, I can’t even be sure that the conversation happened. We all say things in our heads, things that we want to say, but we don’t always say them. Maybe I imagined it, maybe I dreamed it. Maybe I wished I’d said it so much that I started to believe it.” The Doctor sat back again, frustratingly continuing to avoid eye contact. “Loss is a complicated business. I’ve lost two things – my best friend and my memories of her. Which means I have twice the amount of regrets.”
I had to be pragmatic. That’s what people like the Doctor need. Contrary to his beliefs, he’s an emotional man at heart.
“What are you going to do about it, then?”
At last, he looked at me.
“I’m not going to make the same mistakes again.” He kept his eyes on me, and reached out, gesturing for me to take his hands, which I did. He leant forward, careful to avoid the candle at the centre of the table. At first I thought he was going to kiss me – that was how our dinners usually ended – but he did something far more remarkable.
As the towers began to sing again, a tune so resonant that it passed over the restaurant like the last breezes of early spring, the Doctor whispered a word in my ear.
The word didn’t need an explanation. It didn’t need validation, or context, or time for consideration. I didn’t have to check, and I didn’t have to doubt. The word spoke for itself, defined itself, proclaimed itself louder than the song of those two great monoliths in front of me.
I was so glad. So glad to be alive, so glad to have met this man, so glad to have ended up here by his side, and so thankful for Clara Oswald, the woman who pushed him to do the unthinkable, to speak the unutterable. She never got in my way at all, I realised. She just helped him to love me, and the rest of the universe, a little bit more.
I leaned forward again, and kissed him, meaning it. My husband had just told me his name. I hope this night never ends.
Part III >