Doctor Who: The Way Through the Woods (2 page)

Then she slipped – on a lump of soil, perhaps, or a tough piece of grass. She fell forwards, tumbling down onto the ground, rolling heavily onto one side. She sat still for a few moments, eyes closed, arms wrapped around her body, making herself take deep breaths until the sick shaky feeling passed and she was sure she wasn’t going to burst into tears. She longed to be home, taking her ear-bashing from Mum, bickering with Mark.

Vicky opened her eyes. There was mud all over her coat, her jeans, and her boots. ‘I’m in so much trouble…’ She stood up, brushing uselessly at herself, only succeeding in smearing mud over more of her clothes. ‘Wait till it dries,’ she told herself. ‘Clean it in the morning. When you’re home.’ She looked round. Clouds had covered the sky and the stars had slipped quietly away. She could no longer see street lights, in any direction.

For one brief, awful second, Vicky panicked. She heard herself moan, and she clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘You have to go
up
,’ she whispered into her glove. ‘The trees are in the hollow. If you go
up
, you’ll find the road.’ And as soon as she found the road, she would stick to it. She would never come this way again. She would never come this near to the trees. It wasn’t worth it.

She took one tentative step forwards. Then another, then another. She wasn’t certain, but it felt like she was going up. But the night was very dark now, and the throb of the motorway very distant, and a hill can rise again before sloping away. The trees were silent and invisible, and long before she realised what she had done, Vicky entered their embrace. A fox, which had been sitting and watching with interest as she stumbled ever nearer to the woods, sniffed at the chill night air, coughed, and then trotted after her. And that was the last anyone saw of Vicky Caine for quite some time.

Emily Bostock smiled at the young man sitting by himself at the far side of the pub. He smiled back, as he had done every time. Nice smile, this one, perhaps a bit lop-sided and not so sure of itself, but kind, Emily thought. Yes, he looked very kind.

Annie, the landlady, tapped Emily on the arm. ‘There’s a table over there that could do with a wipe.’ She nodded towards the young man and gave Emily a conspiratorial wink. ‘That table too, maybe, on your way back?’

‘Maybe,’ Emily said, not wanting to commit herself. No need to rush now, was there? Where did that get you?

‘He looks nice,’ Annie said. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

Emily picked up a cloth and gave it a shake. ‘Never said he didn’t, did I?’

Annie laughed. Emily, smiling, headed off to gather up empty glasses, swapping a few words with the regulars as she went round. She kept half an eye on the nice young man, though, wondering who he was, where he’d come from. She’d never seen him before this evening. He had walked in twenty minutes after they reopened, eaten a huge piece of pie, and sat there in his corner ever since, sipping at one pint of ale. He stuck out like old Frank’s red nose, and he’d earned himself a fair amount of muttered comment from Frank and his cronies as a result. Not just because he was a stranger, but because he was young. Only the old men drank at the Fox these days. The young men were all gone away.

‘Well,’ Emily said briskly, clattering the glasses together, ‘there it is.’ She glanced again at the young man. Good gracious, he was staring right at her! That was forward! Emily blushed hotly. Frank and his gang of old wasps hadn’t missed it either; the story would be round the village in no time. Emily hurried her pile of glasses into the back, where she lingered over the washing up and wondered whatever this young stranger could be about.

When she came out front again, an unpleasant silence was hanging around the bar, like dirty old smog over a city. The young man was still sitting by himself, but now he was staring down at a white feather that had somehow found its way onto the table in front of him. He seemed bewildered, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at.

Emily saw red. Hadn’t this lot done enough damage by now? Weren’t they satisfied? Annie gave her a worried glance and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Emily called across to the young man, making sure her voice carried to every nook and cranny of the pub. ‘Don’t you pay any attention to this lot,’ she said. ‘The closest any one of them’s been to France is a day trip to Brighton.’

The silence in the room changed, like everyone had stopped hungering for a reaction and instead suddenly became embarrassed or ashamed. So they should be. Blood pumping in her ears, Emily threw her dish cloth over her shoulder and stalked back out. Slowly, she washed her face and hands in the big sink, cooling her cheeks and her head. Funny how she didn’t want to cry. This time last year she would have been in floods. Perhaps she was past that now. She wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad sign. She didn’t ever want to forget…

When Emily came out front again, hardly any of the drinkers met her eye, and those who did quickly looked away. So they should. The evening was quiet after that, subdued, and when Annie rang the bell for closing time, Emily made a big show of walking over to the young man. ‘If you wait,’ she said, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘you can walk me home.’

She heard the stir behind her. She tossed her head.

The young man glanced past her, rather nervously. But he said, ‘Great! Yeah! I’ll wait. Of course I’ll wait!’

Annie didn’t make her stay. ‘I’ll clear up. Don’t want to keep him hanging around while you wash up, do you?’

So Emily washed her hands again, straightened her hair, and pinned on her hat, the one with the jet-black butterfly pinned to the crown. It wasn’t her best hat, but it was definitely an eye-catcher. A proven success. The young man stood by the door and smiled at her as he waited.

‘What’s your name, then?’ she said.

‘Rory.’ He was twiddling with the white feather between his fingers. They were long, expressive fingers that looked like they might do much of his talking for him.

‘Just Rory? Nothing else? Or do you come with a whole name of your very own?’

He laughed. ‘Williams. Rory Williams.’

She stuck out her hand, feeling very modern. ‘And I’m Emily Bostock. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Williams.’

He shook her hand. ‘The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Bostock.’ Then, sweetly, he took her shawl and placed it around her shoulders. Nice smile, and nice manners too.

‘Well,’ Emily said. ‘Are you going to walk me home or not?’

‘I think I should.’ He pushed the door open, stood back, and bowed. ‘After you, Miss Bostock.’

‘Why, thank you, Mr Williams!’

Outside a nearly full moon poured milky light upon the lane. The sky itself was stained indigo dark and there was a faint bite to the air. Emily pulled her shawl tighter around herself and glanced back at her companion. His face was in shadow as he closed the door behind them. Now they were alone together. All of a sudden, Emily felt shy. Not such the modern girl after all, was she? And it was a while since she’d been by herself with a young man.

They stood on the step staring at each other, warm yellow lamplight spilling onto them through the windows of the pub. Yes, he had a nice face this one, not what you’d call striking, not exactly, and with a few worry lines, but, well –
nice
. Suddenly Emily felt quite breathless, like she was doing something she oughtn’t, but didn’t care. She felt quite free.

‘Er,’ her companion said, after a moment or two standing like this. He lifted his finger as if wanting to attract her attention, while not actually causing any bother, ‘I don’t know, you know, where you live…’

‘Oh, of course, silly me!’ Emily pointed past the grey silhouette of the old mill towards Long Lane, winding its way across the darkened fields. ‘Out that way. Not quite four miles.’ She bit her lip. ‘Not too far for you, is it?’

‘No, not at all.’ He offered her his arm; she linked her own through it, and they walked companionably down the road and turned onto Long Lane. Williams had turned shy; he would catch her eye, open his mouth to start up a conversation and then close his mouth again and smile at her instead. With his free hand, he was still fiddling with the white feather. Maybe that was what was making him bashful.

‘I hope you’re not too upset about that,’ Emily said, nodding towards the feather. ‘Nobody with any sense hands them out. Disgusting thing to do, if you ask me.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Your white feather. You weren’t too upset by all that business, were you?’

He looked at the feather, as if he hardly remembered he still had it. He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Upset? Why would I be upset?’

‘Well, you know…’ Emily tried to think of a delicate way of putting it, because you couldn’t outright say to a young man, particularly such a nice young man,
They think you’re a coward because you’re not in uniform
. ‘They give them to those who haven’t been out there… You know. As an insult.’

The penny dropped. ‘Oh! Yeah, I see. Probably should have thought of that.’

‘Maybe next time keep your silver badge on or something. Well, I’m glad you weren’t offended, Mr Williams, but where’ve you been that you don’t know what handing out a white feather means?’

‘Here and there.’ He waved the feather around vaguely. ‘You know how it is.’

‘You’d better not turn out to be a spy,’ Emily said. ‘I’d never live that one down.’ She gave him a long sideways look. ‘Here, you’re not a spy, are you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not a spy.’

‘Well, I doubt you’d tell me if you was, so I’ll just have to take your word for it, won’t I?’

‘’Fraid so!’

‘Well, spy or not, you’re not to mind.’

‘Mind? What am I supposed to be minding?’

‘The feather, you daft thing!’ Emily slapped his arm, gently – and left her hand resting there. ‘No, you’re not to mind. What do that lot in there know about the War? Not a thing. Not one thing. None of them are going to get their call-up, are they? All too old. You’d be better sticking Jack Jones’s old pig in a uniform and sending that out. Oh, it’s easy to be brave sitting with your pals in the Fox all warm and with plenty of beer to hand, isn’t it? Not so easy when you’re stuck out there in the mud with the fleas and the rats for company.’ Emily felt her eyes prickling. She was probably saying too much, but she didn’t care. She was past minding her words on account of others. ‘Besides, they’ve got no idea why you’re at home, have they? You could have been wounded, couldn’t you?’ A sudden, dreadful thought crossed her mind. ‘Here, you’re not a conchie, are you? Because I’d never live that one down neither.’

‘A conchie?’ he said. ‘What’s that?’

She stopped in her tracks. ‘A conscientious objector, of course – here, how do you not know that? Where
have
you been?’

‘Nowhere, Emily, honestly. I’ve just… had a lot on my mind recently. But, no – I’m not a conscientious objector.’

‘Have you been in the army?’

He hesitated before answering. The moon disappeared behind a cloud and all of a sudden she couldn’t make out his features any more, only dark shapes and shadows. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Well, sort of. It’s difficult to explain and I can’t say any more, Emily… Um. Careless talk costs lives, you know, that kind of thing…’

‘You shouldn’t say if you don’t want to. Don’t tell me a lie, though.’

‘I’m not a spy, and I’m not a conchie.’ The moon came back and again she saw that lop-sided smile, enough to turn a girl soft. ‘I don’t think I’m a coward either. But you’ll have to take my word for that, too.’

‘Well,’ Emily said gently, ‘what sort of world would it be if you couldn’t take a young gentleman at his word?’ She patted his arm. ‘You’re a nice lad, aren’t you, Mr Williams? You listen. Most lads soon stop listening or never start in the first place. You can tell a good lad by the way he listens. Not much for a girl to ask, is it?’ Reaching out, she took the white feather from him and stuck it into her hat, next to the little jet butterfly. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Because we’re all in this together, aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right about that.’

The stars twinkled brightly in the unpolluted sky. Emily looked round at the dark fields. She felt all shy herself, now. They weren’t so far from the village and she wondered if anyone could see them. ‘Oh, I can’t stand how long this bloomin’ walk takes. Every bloomin’ night. Let’s take the shortcut.’

Her companion looked doubtfully across the dark field. ‘I can’t see a path—’

‘There is one,’ Emily said, ‘if you know your way. Don’t worry, Mr Williams, I won’t drag you into the woods!’ She crossed the lane, clambered onto the fence and hopped down the other side. ‘I can give you a hand if you need it,’ she said, cheekily.

‘I
think
I’ll manage…’ Carefully he climbed onto the fence, and sat on top, legs straddling it. He looked ever so uncomfortable, like a hen perched on top of an unexpectedly large egg. Emily laughed. ‘You have to be a city boy – it’s like you’ve never seen a fence before tonight!’

‘Actually, I’m from a village, it’s just I’m not usually the one doing the climbing.’

‘Got a pal to do it for you?’

‘Something like that.’ He swung his legs over and jumped down.

‘Everyone needs a pal, Mr Williams. I’ll be yours if you’ll be mine.’ She held out her hand, and he took it – and suddenly the laughter bubbled up from inside her like a little brook, the way it used to with her Sam, and Emily broke into a run, pulling her companion after her across the dark field and down into the hollow.

The trees came from nowhere. Mr Williams yanked Emily’s arm so hard she came to a sudden halt.

‘Ow!’ Emily dropped his hand to rub her shoulder. ‘Oi! That hurt!’

‘Sorry! Sorry! We were getting very close to the trees.’

‘The trees? Don’t tell me you believe all that nonsense about the woods?’

‘The nonsense?’

‘Swallow Woods,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you heard – they swallow you up!’ She wiggled her fingers spookily. ‘Nonsense.’

Williams peered through the branches, as if trying to catch a glimpse of something. ‘Don’t underestimate old stories,’ he said. ‘Stories are powerful. And nonsense is sometimes a word for something we don’t quite understand, yet.’ He looked back towards the lane. ‘Perhaps we should keep to the path,’ he said, more to himself, it seemed, than to Emily. ‘Perhaps we should find out where that takes us. If there’s a path, there has to be a
reason
for the path…’