The 1969 Diaries
13 July 1969
This is weird. I haven't written a diary since I was nine; that was a present from Dad—Tish and I both got them, they were pink and had a lock and key—very 1993, wasn't it? I have such bad handwriting—a physician's handwriting, they tell me, and no good for anything but taking notes. I'd rather use a laptop, thank you very much. But they haven't got laptops in 1969, have they? I'd be lucky to find a typewriter! Can't wait to transfer this to MySpace. Maybe I won't even be able to read my handwriting by then.
You know, it's strange. The Doctor's a doctor, isn't he, sort of? And yet I've never seen him write any—Well, of course, when he was John Smith, he wrote beautifully. Had ace penmanship, he did, used to get that fountain ink all over him, though. Once he sent me out to buy some. " "Please remember this time, Martha," in that correct voice of his, "blue ink, not black." As if it made a difference. Maybe it did, to him. A Journal of Impossible Things.
Perhaps that's what I'd call this. I'd rather not call this anything. I'd rather this didn't exist.
14 July 1969
I haven't started this properly. If I'm going to write, I should at least start by making sense. I suppose it was the day before yesterday the Doctor and I got thrown back here, in 1969. We didn't take the TARDIS, which is why we can't get back. It was these Weeping Angel things, we blinked and they fed on our temporal energy, so here we are. But we can get back.
At first the Doctor treated it like any other adventure. We walked around for a bit. Took a peek by this house, Wester Drumlins, supposed to be some kind of wreck, a haunted house, in 2007. That's according to Sally Sparrow's files. Right now, the house is looking pretty posh, walls and gates surrounding it, someone's Rolls in the driveway. We weren't allowed in.
On the streets, it's London in summertime. Hot. Kids on bikes, the beginning of flared collars and bell bottoms. Radios in cafes playing the Stones, the Doors. Mods and rockers. Overheard some girl talking about the Beatles' last concert on a rooftop. The Doctor offered to take me round to my flat—or what will be my flat in 2007. I didn't really want to see. A bit creepy. Then I thought about Gran's house in Bromley. My mum would have been seven years old and living in that house. She might have even been outside in the garden, playing. The Doctor stopped then and said, in all seriousness. "No. I don't know what it is with you and seeing your parents and the past—"
"Me? I never—"
"Humans," he said darkly, and I knew he meant Rose. Figures. Bloody typical.
"Well, wouldn't you want to see your parents on Gallifrey, if you could?" I wasn't feeling particularly sensitive, even if his planet was destroyed.
He considered for a long moment, staring hard into the distance. "I think I'd rather see Susan," he said, and was off at a trot, as if we hadn't gotten all the time in the world to be stranded in 1969.
Who's Susan? I wondered.
Anyway, we were rambling around like this all afternoon. I was knackered and starving, so we stopped at some anonymous, brown-colored café, dine-in or carry-out. No matter how many times I tell him I don't especially like chips . . . Well, he ate them, and washed it all down with tea—"Now this, this is proper tea," he exclaimed to no one in particular. "This is the best tea I've had since I sat down to finger sandwiches and cake with the Duchess of Devonshire—"
You have to let him talk when he gets like that. I pushed some mushy peas around on my plate and ordered sticky toffee pudding without guilt, 'cause the Doctor—for once—was paying. Then he put on his glasses, moved his plate out of the way, and started going through the Sally Sparrow file, which he'd had in his jacket ever since she handed it to him—two days ago. Blimey, this time-stuff hurts my head sometimes.
He read it, diligently, all of it, handing papers and photographs over to me. I tried to be methodical and scientific, like I was studying for an exam. The facts, I understood those. How these facts link up from present-past-future—that's his field.
By the time we were done, I noticed that the café owners were looking pretty pointedly at the clock. "Look, Doctor, I know it's summer, but I think we do need to find a place to sleep. Park bench isn't going to do it for me, not this time."
I tried to make him laugh, but he took off his glasses, shelled out his money—what they were to make of it, I don't know—and said, "Yes, of course," like it had been his own idea. We wandered outside in the still-warm air. The Doctor was walking down the street with determination, like he knew where he was going. Nowhere in that file did I recall seeing "where Martha and the Doctor spent their first night." I followed him for awhile, a little too astonished and angry to argue, until he stopped in front of a sort of dingy terraced house (only a few streets away from the café). He was about to knock on the door when it opened.
"Hello," he said. "Am I to understand there's a room in this house for let?"
The woman who opened the door looked like she'd walked off the Coronation Street set, and strangely enough, she had a northern accent. "Yes, and how did you know that?"
"Word gets around. May we come in?"
He has this wonderful ability of pushing his way through doorways. "Lovely night," I murmured to her, unsure of what else to say. The place was kind of a dump, small and dark, and it smelled of cigarettes and some kind of cleaning solution, reminded me of a surgery actually!
"I was just going to advertise for women boarders," she said, as the Doctor walked past her toward the back room behind the stairs.
"Ah, well, Martha's a woman and . . ." I waited for something really clever. ". . . well . . . I'm harmless, aren't I?"
She gave me a look, this woman, that said she wasn't convinced. "You two gonna sleep in the one room? There's only one bed—" as we could see, "—and I'm not having couples living in sin—"
"Just good friends," the Doctor put in quickly. (Memories of the Shakespearean bed. Oh dear.)
"If you have a camp bed," I said, "the Doctor could sleep on that."
He gave me a rather unpleasant look—well, he deserved that—and added, "I don't sleep much anyway."
"You're a doctor, then?" The woman visibly brightened.
"Medical student, actually," he said, eyeing me. He put out his hand.
"Mrs. Allan, but you must already know that."
"This is Martha Jones. May we see the room?"
The way she was looking at us, I wondered if the Doctor was going to need the psychic paper. "You haven't asked how much it is."
The Doctor smiled apologetically. "I'm sure whatever you're charging, it's fair."
I could have smacked him. But Mrs. Allan said, "Cup of tea?"
15 July 1969
The house we have, Mrs. Allan's, is on 12 Curzon Street. There's a clothesline in the back garden for laundry—a fair sight better than washing by hand, but an electric dryer would have been so nice—and a shed behind which is an alleyway where boys on their bikes ride—so Mrs. Allan says. Mrs. Allan seems to think they're some kind of public menace. Anyway, there's the café on the next street, a Woolworth's, a TV shop—which makes the Doctor distinctly nervous, don't ask me why—some kind of shop for plumbing equipment, and a chip shop. The nearest cinema is three blocks.
The room has old carpet, a twin bed, a desk with a rickety chair. There are scars of cigarette butts in the walls. Mrs. Allan's handiwork? There's a book shelf, with no books—a few old copies of Hello magazine (there's an interview with Paul McCartney in it; he says, "There's nothing wrong with pinching ideas from other people . . ."). There's a hot water heater—no good to us now—and the window will only open so far before it gets stuck. That was all right this morning, it was raining. There's a radio—it's quite old and not really working. Though the Doctor has hinted the sonic screwdriver might be able to fix it. There's a big mirror opposite the bed. We get to use the upstairs loo and the kitchen.
Even though I'd just had tea last night, I flopped on the bed—it had just gotten fully dark outside, what a surreal experience—and before I knew it, I'd fallen asleep. Shoes on and all. When I woke, it was still dark. I had to remind myself this was not the TARDIS, it was somewhere new. I was a bit startled; the Doctor was standing near the bed, looking in the mirror. Fully dressed, of course; I don't think he'd slept at all. There was just enough light to distinguish his features. It was odd, though, he was silent and—sort of unknowable.
I was still half-asleep, and I wondered if something was wrong. "Doctor?"
"It's all right, Martha," and his voice was sad and kind of hypnotic. "Go back to sleep."
I must have done. When I woke up again, it was light, raining, and there was a plate of toast on the rickety chair and—bless him!—some black coffee. Bitter, with just a little milk. Even though there was no sign of the Doctor, I knew not to worry. There's always that niggling doubt, you know, that he's taken the TARDIS and run. Maybe Rose never had that thought—but look what happened to her.
I had just managed to scout out the sink upstairs and found my toothbrush when the Doctor came bounding in. I had a mouth full of sudsy toothpaste—real attractive. "Doctor!" I managed to spit it all out without too much of a mess when he began waving a newspaper in front of my face.
"Calm down," I snapped. "I haven't eaten my toast yet." I took the paper and looked at the date—which is how I worked backward for the other dates, you see?—and sighed. I couldn't help it.
"Take a look at the classifieds," said the Doctor, a little impatiently.
I did. Someone had lost an expensive silver card case. There were puppies for sale. So what? "If we're going to be staying for awhile," the Doctor said, running a hand through his hair like he does when he gets nervous, "you'd better—you know. Start looking for a job."
I turned to face him. :Me, get a job?" I wasn't yet taking him seriously. "In a shop? As a cleaner?"
"It would only be for a few weeks, at most," said the Doctor, looking down apologetically.
"Oh yes? Meanwhile you'll be going to lectures because you're the doctor, you're the medical student?" I couldn't help the sarcasm and disgust.
'Well, after the school, and being a maid and all that, surely anything's going to be an improvement?" He flashed an unsure smile—an alien smile.
My mum slapped him once, you know, and right then I felt like slapping him too. "Do you think any of that was easy? Being Black and being a woman in 1913? I had to learn to scrub floors, to wash linen, to iron without electricity, to cook, to . . ."
He looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
I could have done a lot right then, in that poky bath room at the top of the stairs in 1969, before I'd been born. I was infuriated, I was tired of him and tired of traveling. But it was the Doctor. I had chosen to enter the TARDIS, even if at the time I'd still not quite grasped what I was getting myself into. I'd seen so much with the Doctor, and the terror and the wonder were equally huge and incomprehensible. At the best of times it was impossible to be indifferent to him. He galvanized people, either with his infectious love of life or they were made to hate him for that very reason, because they had to stand in such awe of him. But I loved him, and all I could do in that moment was nod at him.
"Okay. All right. I'll look for a job."
"Oh, will you, Martha? You're brilliant!"
"And what will you be doing, mister?" I couldn't disguise a small smile.
"Clothes, I think." His face assumed an expression that was almost serious.
"What?" John Smith might have fussed about his tweed jacket and black bootlaces, but the Doctor and clothes?
"It must have looked pretty strange to Mrs. Allan for us to show up without any suitcases. I've got a bit of cash so I'll hit up the charity shops." I gave him a puzzled look. I have to admit the idea of the Doctor shopping for size 8 jeans was absurd, but that he might actually find a suit like the one he was wearing at a charity shop was practically impossible. It would have been worth the whole ordeal to see him in bell bottoms.
16 July 1969
Apollo 11 has lifted off. Everyone in the shop was talking about it, and Mrs. Allan was giving the Doctor and me an earful all night. I crept back to the room for some peace and quiet! Never thought I'd say that!
I started my job today. It's that chip shop down the street. The Doctor said something snide about how he'd convert me to chips yet. Obviously not! I've seen anatomy videos of clogged arteries. I know what that stuff does to you. No way am I going to be eating it! I serve it, with a smile. I've got a little yellow apron I've got to wear. I operate the till and wrap up the chips. Can you believe it—they still wrap them in newspaper! Don't get me started on how unsanitary that is!
There's this other girl, Katie Johnson she's called. She's older than me, she's got puffy skin, and without being rude we'll say she doesn't think there's anything wrong with chips. I saw the notice on the door yesterday, through the rain, and I walked in and asked if they needed to see my CV (at least I didn't tell them I'd got a very respectable character! That's what Martha Jones the maid would have said!).
Katie Johnson just laughed and put out her cigarette. "You're making me laugh already. You out of school?"
I had to bite back something about my degrees. "Yes, just looking for a way to earn some money this summer."
People here have a curious way of looking you up and down. Not really unkind, but appraising. Different than in 1913, but somehow the same.
"Wot's your name? Have you just moved here or somefink?"
"Martha Jones. Just moved in to a room down the next street."
"Doesn't pay much, this job."
I swallowed. "That's all right, it's just me and I've got to make a little money to get me through to the autumn."
That's how I was hired. Shortest job interview I ever had.
And it's not really that bad, when you consider the alternative. In 1913, I was supposed to wear immaculate pinners every day except the half-Sundays I was allowed off. Then I'd borrow a bike and . . . Well, in the school, all the maids were surrounded by these male teachers and these boys. No one had ever heard of sexual harassment, and I can easily handle anything these men of 1969 can dish out, compared to, "Yes, sir," and "very good, sir." There's no polishing silver, just washing dishes. The till's a lot easier than dusting!
A few weeks, I tell myself. That's got to be easier than three months. And at least he's the Doctor this time, not someone who doesn't even know who I am.
Mrs. Allan is pretty impressed about the voyage to the moon. She keeps saying her told her neighbor Mrs. Wigbie that she knew it would happen. The Doctor and I smile and say we knew too.
20 July 1969
I got home after work tonight, and the hallway was dark, but there was the distinct light and sound coming from the telly in the sitting room. I put down my groceries—Katie Johnson advanced me some pay—and the Doctor put his fingers to his lips and indicated Mrs. Allan, who was on the sofa watching the news. The Doctor was wearing his glasses and looked quite thoughtful, standing by the sofa, and Mrs. Allan was crying. Quietly and with dignity, but there were tears rolling down her cheeks.
I wondered what was going on. "The Apollo 11 astronauts have landed on the lunar surface," said the man on the telly.
I tried not to laugh. I'd done what Neil Armstrong and all the rest had—many years in the future, maybe, but I'd been on the moon, too. That was how I'd first met the Doctor—standing in the glow of the Earthlight. He looked a bit peculiar now, in an old-fashioned black suit, fit for a 1950s funeral, that was just a little too big for him. But he winked at me, and I knew he was thinking about the Judoon too.
Mrs. Allan finished watching the report and then discreetly wiped her eyes. She looked at us as if she'd only just noticed. "I think this calls for a cup of tea." I followed her into the kitchen as she set the kettle on the burner and started boiling the water. She still uses tea leaves, and strangely I find it fascinating watching her adding them to the pot.
"There you are, Martha," she said, handing me a sticky bun on a plate. "That's for you. This one's for Mr. Smith."
"Thank you, Mrs. Allan," I said, bewildered.
"Just eat it up," she said, the sentimentality going out of her voice at once. "Do you think we'll all be able to visit the moon one day?" she asked, lighting a cigarette and waiting for the water to boil.
"Why not?" I replied cheerfully.
"Let me tell you something, Mrs. Allan," the Doctor put in, ignoring the sticky bun. "Do you know where I got my other coat, the one I came in with, the brown one?" I doubt she remembered it at all. For my part, I rolled my eyes; I knew the Janis Joplin thing was coming again.
"Have you heard, Mrs. Allan, of an American singer named Janis Joplin?"
"I've heard of her, yes."
"Well, I met her in San Francisco and not only did she give me my brown coat—which I think had something to do with Photostats of Southern Comfort, I'm not really sure—but she said, 'If I miss, I'll never have a second chance. But I gotta risk it. I never hold back. I'm always on the outer limits of probability.'"
Mrs. Allan wasn't having any of that. "She did, did she?"
"What she meant, of course," said the Doctor, at last biting into the sticky bun, "is that as long as we try, there's a possibility we can do anything." I didn't think it would be fair to point out poor Janis hadn't lived long after making that remark.
You two are strange," she said slowly. "I don't know at all what to think of you. You bring whispers into the house."
"Sorry?"
"Even before me husband died, I was hearing things," she said, with such seriousness I stopped chewing. "People think I'm odd, that I knew before they did that we'd be going to the moon."
"There's nothing sinister about us!" said the Doctor. "And I've got the month's rent here—" he reached into a pocket in the shapeless suit. "Martha'll give you the rest after she gets paid."
I didn't really want to ask him how he got the money. I'm sure it wasn't anything bad or illegal or anything— Mrs. Allan looked pleased and said she was going to watch the rest of the news. The Doctor and I sat down in the kitchen. I asked him what he'd been doing all day since I'd been working. All he'd own up to was reading the Sally Sparrow file over and over, to make sure there wasn't anything he'd missed.
"We're still waiting on Billy Shipton," he said. While Billy hand't been able to tell Sally the day he'd arrived in 1969, he had made a probable guess to location, time of day, and season. From this the Doctor could extrapolate when he was due, and he could patrol—so he said. It made sense superficially, but to think about it too hard . . .
"Does Mrs. Allan really hear ghosts?"
"It's possible." He was tight-lipped in a way that meant there was something he wasn't telling me.
"Or is she just crazy? Someone would have to be mad to take the two of us in."
It was a joke, but he looked faintly hurt. "We keep good company, you and me. Shakespeare, Face of Boe, Teddy Roosevelt . . . Edgar Allan Poe . . ."
"He was a real downer."
"Excellent taste in cognac, though."
Impossible to get a straight answer from that man.
31 July 1969
Billy Shipton arrived yesterday afternoon.
I can't quite get my mind around the sadness of his situation. Sally Sparrow, of course, included the letters and photographs given to her by her friend Kathy Nightingale's grandson—mementoes of a life that began in 1986 and ended in 1987. How is it that even possible? But she'd had a good life, this Kathy Nightingale. It had been bare minutes for Billy Shipton—lovely man—since he'd seen Sally Sparrow, and then to learn from the Doctor that it would be almost 40 years before he'd see her again and deliver the message the Doctor had to give—
When you're young, you read A Tale of Two Cities and wonder if a bloke like Sydney Carton can actually exist, someone that selfless. When I'm with the Doctor, we meet all sorts of people—loads of them cowards, loads of them who do what they have to do because of a chemical reaction in their bodies—adrenaline. But the ones with real moral strength, with real courage—they exist, but they're rare.
After the Doctor told Billy about the Angels and 1969, Billy's first instinct was to run. He actually punched the Doctor and ran into the street. I tried to follow him, but the Doctor shouted at me just to stop and let him be. It wasn't long before Billy came back, shaken and convinced he'd really been transported backwards in time.
"Come on," said the Doctor. "I'll buy you a drink."
It was the first time I'd been to a pub in ages. At least in 1913 it didn't smell like smoke everywhere. Billy had a bottle of hard stuff and drank it slowly, but he drank it all. "So now what?" he asked.
"You're supposed to get into the DVD business, when DVDs are invented, that is." The Doctor was talking low.
"There's this list of 17 DVDs that have an Easter egg on them. They're all DVDs Sally Sparrow is going to own in 2007." He nodded, but as if in a daze.
"What's the Easter egg of?"
"Apparently, it's of me, talking to an invisible Sally. It's me reading a transcript."
Billy looked at him like he was mad—and it certainly sounded like he might be. "I can't believe this. No sane, rational person can believe this."
"I'm sorry, Billy, but you're going to have to believe us."
"What are you, Doctor, exactly?"
The Doctor sighed deeply, reshuffling the contents of the Sally Sparrow file and hazarding looks at the other people in the pub. "I travel in time and space. In the TARDIS. That stands for Time and Relative—"
"Why can't you just take that thing back? Why are you trapped in 1969?"
"When the Angels took Martha and me back, we weren't in the TARDIS. We have to find a way of sending the TARDIS back in time to get us. The only person who can do that is Sally who does so by getting the message you as an old man give her in 2007, enabling her to see the DVD Easter egg that will explain it all in the first place." He took a deep breath. "Or in the last place."
Billy seemed to mull it over. "We record this one-sided transcript, I slap it on some DVDs for 2007, and then the TARDIS comes and picks us up in 1969?"
The Doctor looked at me. "You've got to stay."
"See, that's what makes no sense," said Billy between his teeth. I knew what he meant, and how unfair it must seem. "And who are you in all this, Martha Jones?" he asked. My mouth was dry even though I'd been drinking lemonade. "I look at a pretty girl in 2007 and that was worth it, she was fantastic—"
"Look," I said, "before we get any farther, just know that I know how you're feeling. That may seem impossible, but just believe me, I know."
We sat for a minute in awkward silence. "I've got credit cards in my pocket that won't work," said Billy softly, "car keys to no car. A driver's license from 2002. What am I supposed to do?"
"I have an idea," said the Doctor slowly. He looked at me, and suddenly seemed very old. ""Martha, I want you to go back to the house. Mrs. Allan will be worried."
"But—"
"I'm going to stay and discuss things with Billy until the pub closes. Then I'm going to find him a place to stay. I'll be back after that as soon as I can."
There are certain tones of voice the Doctor uses when he's at the complete other end of the spectrum from joking. "Fine," I snapped.
I waited up for him, of course, long after Mrs. Allan had gone to bed and had told me lights must be out. They were out. I wasn't about to have a row about that with her. I made myself coffee in the dark of the kitchen, creeping about, much as I had learned to do noiselessly in the pantry of the school.
I sat on the bed in the room, heard the door open quietly. He must have known I was still awake. "I've got him a flat," he said, and there was weariness in his voice.
"What? A flat? Why didn't—"
"Shh," he snapped. "He'll do it."
"He'll record the transcript? When?"
"He has to get a hold of the equipment. It'll take a few days."
And to think the most excitement Katie Johnson at work had was that the half penny had gone out!
3 August 1969
I've just gone to see a really rubbish film at the cinema. I didn't really enjoy a second of it. It was called The Best House in London, and it was all that was playing. The Doctor handed me a pound and told me to go do something fun. I hadn't seen a film in ages, so I thought, why not?
I think it was to help me unwind. Billy Shipton who was more or less all smiles, just as Sally Sparrow describes him, got together the necessary equipment to film the Easter egg today. We did it in Mrs. Allan's house while she was out. The Doctor sat at the kitchen table, reading from the transcript—I'm afraid to say I butted in, but really, can you blame me?—and it was weird. I knew all along it was going to be a one-sided conversation, but somehow it seemed much more natural to stare into the giant film camera and complain to an invisible Sally Sparrow than it was to hear the Doctor exhort someone—anyone—"don't blink." Sent shivers up my spine, and I think it did for Billy, too.
There are still VHS to DVD conversions, and people are always transferring LPs to MP3s—in 2007, I mean. Will it be that easy? Billy didn't know—he said he would keep the reel safe for however long it took. The Doctor said something morose about never, ever letting the BBC throw out the prints. What?
We had some giggles, despite the weirdness of it all, and when Mrs. Allan arrived, Billy Shipton seemed happy enough to pose as my "gentleman caller,"—or is that 1913 language? He'd already packed up the camera. The Doctor wasn't his bouncy self as we said goodbye to Billy. "I know how it feels, to be trapped on Earth," he said. "You're longing so desperately to be somewhere else, and you've got to be patient, however much you may hate it." He sighed, and it's like there were centuries ticking by in his head. "Is she worth it?" he asked. "Sally Sparrow?"
We'd met her, but only a brief few seconds. Billy seemed to know her better. He grinned. "Sally Sparrow? Of course she's worth it."
It's funny, I've barely thought about Tish and Mum and Dad and Leo since we got here. Beyond wanting to see Mum as a child. Sometimes I'll flip open my mobile and want to ring Mum up, like I did when I honestly thought I was going to die. Tell her I'm working in a chip shop, she'd love that. What if the TARDIS never comes? What if I'm born in 1984 and die in 1969? It will be a full life, I guess, though it would have been nice to have passed those exams and get to call myself Dr. Martha Jones . . .
7 August 1969
We wait. There really isn't any way of knowing how long in 1969 we stay. It's a hot summer and sometimes unbearable in the shop. The smell of vinegar is really beginning to make me lose my appetite. I think all I had to eat yesterday was ice cream and coffee and some crackers. The Doctor doesn't notice, but then he never does.
Mrs. Allan was happy again today, because on the news they say that Mariner 7 is making its closet fly-by Mars yet. But when she's in a good mood she buys cake and stops talking about ghosts and her dead husband. Mars, now that's one place the Doctor's never taken me. Doesn't look too pleasant, though I haven't asked him yet about the face on it.
It was funny, earlier. I'm writing this very early in the morning by the window. Couldn't sleep and it's Saturday so I can have a bit of a lie-in if I want. I left the Doctor and Mrs. Allan talking about Martians and etymology while I'd gone to have a moment's peace—really, and this is a bit pathetic to admit—to go through my old texts, just to remind me that Mum and Tish and everyone did exist out there, somewhere. It was pretty late, and the news was over when I'd crept back to do the washing up. Mrs. Allan had gone to bed already, I guess, but the Doctor was still on the sofa. I'm not sure, but I think he was asleep.
Now I saw John Smith asleep before, or just woken up as I brought him breakfast—oh, loads of times. He looked normal, tousled—a bit vulnerable, really. The strange thing was with the Doctor—who never let his guard down, never slept so he said—he didn't really look vulnerable at all. He didn't look like he was resting at all.
And I thought, can he ever rest? He is the last one, and I doubt there's ever a moment goes by he doesn't think of that. Even asleep, I didn't feel at ease enough to even go near him. It was almost like he was more alert than ever. I can't describe how.
I was annoyed, that night we met Shakespeare, but that didn't stop me from falling asleep. When you've had enough boyfriends to know that the ones worth keeping are the ones who pretend not to have seen you drooling on the pillow or who don't seem to mind seeing you without make-up—
I'm just rambling now, I guess. Cabin fever.
11 August 1969
I never thought I'd come back for this diary. When the Doctor stopped by the chip shop this morning and quite soberly told Katie Johnson it was an emergency and could I have half an hour break—well, I'd have believed him if I were her. Then he led me to where the TARDIS had landed. Oh, that old blue box. The TARDIS Yale key, to fit it into the lock . . . ! I could have screamed in triumph. I did throw my arms around the Doctor and hug him, greasy chip apron and all.
Thank you, Sally Sparrow, thank you, Billy Shipton, thank you, Kathy and Larry Nightingale. Inside it was if we'd never left. It smelled the same, it sounded the same. Take me away, I thought, looking up at that massive column, take me anywhere but here! The Doctor hadn't reacted with quite the reckless abandon I'd expected. He was immediately on about how she really needed a maintenance check, some upgrading and refueling along a space-energy rift could do it a world of good . . .
"Wait," I said, startling both of us. "There's something I need to do." Katie Johnson had paid me the day before, and though I didn't think she'd feel the loss of a girl working the till too keenly, I didn't feel exactly right about leaving without giving Mrs. Allan the rent money.
"I don't believe this," said the Doctor. "I've heard nothing but complaining from you for weeks and now you want to stay?"
"No," I corrected,. "I don't want to stay. I've had quite my fill of 1969, thanks—but I've got to go back to the house just for a minute. You could come with me." He gave me a look. "Just promise you wont' leave me behind."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Doctor, I'm being serious.
"You've got an hour," he said, "and then I'm going. And don't blink at any statues on the way!"
I hadn't quite thought up an excuse for Mrs. Allan until I got to the door, still wearing the yellow apron. "Oh, hello, Martha," she said. "Shouldn't you be at work?"
"There was a . . . problem with the hot oil, vats of it overheated so I got the afternoon off." Before she had a chance to question it, I stuffed the money in her hand. "Before I forget, here's August's rent. I'm going to go hang this up, and then I've got to meet the Doctor at the train station . . . we're going to . . ." (I let my imagination run freely, " . . . have a picnic."
I picked up this very book you're reading and raced out with a quick goodbye. I sat outside in Kensington, then, and wrote this last entry. I have no idea who's going to find it or when or if they'll believe half of it. When I was writing it, it was just to have something to do. Maybe to you it'll mean more.
Sources include Flashbacks: Eyewitness Accounts of the Rock Revolution 1964-1974 by Michael Lydon and the wikipedia timeline for 1969.