"That was a hard day," said Craig. His face was dirty, his hands were dirty, his clothes were dirty.
Martha had made a giant pot of tea on the top of the single gas-fired ring. "One cuppa coming up. Extra strong." She herself looked recently scrubbed. Despite working the same side of the market, they had barely spoken all day.
"You could do with a shower in here," he mocked from the small sink in the bathroom.
"Where do you think we are?" she laughed. "The seventies?"
"Nah," he said, returning with a fresh shirt. "It's not so bad. No-one expects you to smell like a bunch of flowers here."
"Just make sure you use that soap. Sixties or not, I'm a stickler for hygiene."
"Not so bad," he repeated sitting at the table. There was no television in Martha's tiny apartment, just a small brown radio, but he sat back relaxed. "I'll make us some toast in a bit."
"Don't worry, Craig. You'll be doing your bit soon enough." She poured two mugs of tea and put one on the table in front of him. "But I'm not bringing you a pipe and slippers." They both laughed.
"Yeah. That's a pain. Everyone's puffing away around the fruit and veg. Even the young lads smoke cigarettes. It's difficult to start a conversation between coughs."
"You get used to it. I was wheezing like an old lady for the first couple of weeks here. All those old fellas dropping ash on the flowers while they were trying to chat me up. I keep getting the urge to talk about lung cancer and death and all sorts. But it's not right. I'd stand out too much."
"I'm not sure what we can do here, Martha. Apart from work and live some kind of honest life."
"Don't worry. You can come back with me when my friend sorts out the travel issues we have." She wrinkled her cheek encouragingly. "You will come back?"
Craig sipped his tea and looked up at her. "I'm sorry, Martha, but I've only just got here. Only a week. It's great. I don't know when I'll want to leave." He sipped his tea again. "That's a lot of sugar in there."
"Sorry," she murmured. "Everyone takes about a hundred spoons of sugar in their tea now. I forget to ask." She topped up the mug with the now stronger tea.
"You don't really know when your mate will come back. Or even if he'll sort out your problem. It's a bit of a stretch isn't it? Messages in DVDs forty or fifty years in the future? How will that even work?"
Martha rubbed her forehead, still smiling, but she had clearly thought about it before. "Things usually work out. Maybe a few days, maybe a few more weeks."
Craig squared the mug on the table-cloth. "Well," he shrugged. "If all else fails you can always wait until the future catches up with you?"
Martha went to the sink and pushed some cutlery around in the tiny wash-bowl. She had thought about that too. "Well. Time will always catch up with you."
Craig resisted the urge to go and slap her on the shoulder, like he would have done with most of his friends. He went to the window and pulled back an edge of the curtain. "Plenty to do, plenty to see, Professor Jones."
She snorted at the nickname and threw the glass cloth at his head. A smile crept over her face as she wrapped her arms around her chest.
"Who's that out there?" Craig asked, opening the curtain fully.
Martha put down the mug of tea and walked up beside him. "Oh. It's not him again is it? Some lunatic running around in the dark. Shouting. He's been at it for a few days now."
Down on the relative quiet of the cobbles they could see the shape of a young man flitting around the wooden partition walls. There was little light around the empty stalls and barrows, but from the glow of the Opera House and The Strand and all the surrounding streets they could see his outline and his energy.
"What does he shout?" Craig was quite taken by the random actions of the figure.
"I don't know for sure. It sounds like 'tick tock' or something like that." She pulled the curtain back over "I'm not stupid enough to go outside to ask him."
Craig winked at her. "Maybe it's a mystery? We could solve a crime while we're here. Like an Agatha Christie."
She shook her head. "There's not enough time to solve every mystery, Craig. Sip your tea and we'll wait out the creepy stone angels mystery before we get on other matters."
Craig looked around the corner of the curtain again. "He is funny though."
Martha pushed the curtain closed again. "I doubt he would understand you, Craig. We all think he's from 'abroad' somewhere. You know? He wears a fez. Not from around here."
:::
Martha was not sure why Craig had run so quickly from the room. She cleaned the tea mugs, scrubbing the limescale and staining on the inside. But after a few minutes waiting she had to go after him.
Down on the street, right outside the stairs leading up to her apartment, Craig was hugging the mystery figure.
"Martha, Martha," he shouted. "This guy is a friend of mine." The smile was wider than his face would normally allow. He kept pointing at the young man in the fez.
"Oh," said the Doctor. "Martha Jones, I presume." He adjusted the hat on his head and looked a little wary.
"Yes. How do you know? Have we met before?" She frowned. It was a bit like the moment the day before when she had met Craig.
"No. Not quite. Well, yes, but not yet." He looked to the side and up the stairs. "Craig did tell me." He finally offered his hand for her to shake.
"Ah," she nodded. "One of those discussions."
