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Counting

Chapter Four

.~*~*~*~.

16 June 1996

Aunt Sharon was in the kitchen by the time Amy woke up. She thought this to be very strange, because Aunt Sharon was normally at work by this hour, and was definitely not usually found in the kitchen making French toast.

French toast! It was Amy's absolute favourite, and Aunt Sharon usually only made it on the specialest of special occasions. Which Amy very quickly took to be a clue that something important was happening. She wasn't sure she liked the looks of it. Her suspicion mounted as she slowly pulled out her chair. "Why aren't you at work, Aunt Sharon?" she asked slowly.

Aunt Sharon turned and smiled. It was a funny smile. Shaky. "I'm taking the day off," she said. "Look, I'm making your favourite for breakfast, sweetheart — French toast."

Amy sat down. Her aunt was just being evasive. Ev-as-ive. "Why?"

Two slices of French toast were scraped onto her plate, then a cup of vanilla yoghurt was passed her way. Next Aunt Sharon served herself and sat down before answering. "Well … we're doing something a little different today, Amy, love. We're going to Leicester."

Leicester? They'd never been to Leicester out of the blue like that. They only ever went once a year, to visit the fairground that came each August, but August was a long way away. And once Amy had been on a school trip to the museum, but that was all. Leicester was, after all, a whole hour's drive away. So besides that, she had never even left Leadworth since moving there from Inverness. So Amy, with typical attitude, asked shortly again, "Why?"

Aunt Sharon replied after sipping her tea. "Oh, I just have an appointment. Maybe after we could go to the big cinema there. They have one that's still showing Toy Story; I looked it up in the paper. You liked that movie, didn't you?" She smiled again and took a second long swig of tea.

Amy, who happened to be convinced that Toy Story was the greatest movie of all time, wasn't so easily bought. She might have been just seven, but she was sharp of mind and had become fiercely independent in her short life. She decided she would not touch her breakfast (which, like the promise to see Toy Story, appeared to be a bribery of some sort) until she got some answers. So she asked, "What appointment?"

"Just to … talk with someone. They really want to meet you."

"You're going all the way to Leicester to talk with someone? With who?"

"Never you mind, Amy, love." A strained smile, the third one in the course of this meal. "Don't you want to eat your breakfast?"

Which was when Amy gave up. She looked back down at her French toast, and a battle took place in her mind: which would win out, her stubbornness or her hunger? It was something of a truce in the end. She ate the yoghurt and drank the apple juice, but she left the French toast. Perhaps Aunt Sharon made note of what this meant, because she pursed her lips but she didn't say anything.

Breakfast took time to get through at any rate. Aunt Sharon was a slow eater when she wasn't in a rush to get to work, and she took longer still to sip her tea. Amy was relieved when she was excused from the table to go and get dressed. "Put something nice on, why don't you, Amy, love? One of your nice little summer dresses, maybe, and a barrette for your hair. Remember those barrettes you were collecting from the penny store around Christmas? Those are very nice, and you have a fortune of them, don't you? Off you pop, sweet pea."

So Amy went ahead and put on her lilac summer dress and she brushed her hair and put in the yellow butterfly barrette from the penny store. After that she played with her brand-new Doctor doll and the similar rag doll of herself she'd spent weeks on in Art class with much aid from the teacher until Aunt Sharon shouted it was time to go.

And that was how Amy Pond found herself strapped into the backseat of Aunt Sharon's blue Vauxhall, with her young mind bracing itself for whatever was to come.

.~*~*~*~.

The drive to Leicester was long and dull and took almost twice as long as it should have dine: there'd been a bad traffic accident on the motorway. Amy crossed her fingers in the hope that it would make them late for the appointment, but as they were pulling off the motorway at the exit for Leicester, Aunt Sharon said loftily, "Well, at least we left very early, so we shouldn't be late."

Amy privately groaned.

They kept driving for a short while until Aunt Sharon pulled up in the car park of an ugly grey building next to a laundrette that had seen better days. Amy unbuckled her seatbelt and slowly climbed out of the car. She walked side-by-side with Aunt Sharon through the building's front doors, across the empty lobby, and into the lift, which they rode to the 5th floor. Then down a long, grey-carpeted corridor to a door at its far end on the right. A small plaque on the wall read in stern text:

Dr Fiona R Davis
YOUTH PSYCHIATRIST AND SPECIALIST

Whatever that meant.

.~*~*~*~.

On the other side of the door Amy found a waiting room. It looked a lot like the waiting room at the dentist's: plastic chairs going all around the walls; coffee tables in the corners scattered with magazines, tabloids, and picture books; a bored-looking receptionist behind the counter on the far side of the room; a small table with a collection of cheap toys, plus a few Barbies and Hot Wheels; posters and prints of paintings on the walls.

Amy sat down on one of the plastic chairs and found a beat-up Where's Wally? While Aunt Sharon checked in. Then her aunt joined her and leafed through the latest Elle while Amy busied herself in hunting for Wally & co. She did not ask her aunt why they were here again, though all her thought was focused on the matter, and she wondered how long it would be before she found out. Out of the corner of her eye she noted that Aunt Sharon was looking at her strangely again — almost sadly and worriedly. At some point she put a hand on Amy's shoulder. "Sweetheart — "

For her part, Amy batted the offending hand away without lifting her eyes from her book.

She had worked her way through two sections when she heard the receptionist say, "Amelia Pond?" Her head and Aunt Sharon's went up in tandem.

The receptionist was standing, and pointing at a door at his right hand. "Just through there, if you please," he droned, and Amy stood up slowly, putting the book back on the coffee table. She crossed the room with small steps; all of a sudden she was afraid. Not the nerves that came whenever she visited the dentist, when she worried too late that she hadn't been brushing her teeth enough and would have a mouthful of cavities (which hadn't yet happened); no, it was a grim kind of fear. She was certain that she was not going to like whatever was to come behind that door, and was sure she wouldn't like whoever it was Aunt Sharon had made her appointment with.

She reached the door.

Felt very small all of a sudden.

Felt her seven short years.

Aunt Sharon was behind her, she realised. A hand on her shoulder, steering her but not pushing her to go quickly. Aunt Sharon stepped past Amy to open the door, and they stepped past the threshold into the room behind it.

It was an office, the office, Amy supposed, of Dr Fiona R Davis. She was a woman of sixty or so, sitting behind her big desk and appraising the girl and her aunt over the rims of her glasses as they entered the room. She bid them sit down with a gesture. Aunt Sharon shut the door and made for the desk, but Amy hovered near the exit.

The office was a study in bland. Grey carpeting on the floor. A window overlooking the car park. A small cupboard. A grey, metal filing cabinet with a potted cactus on top of it. Soothing, vanilla-coloured walls. There were pictures on them, just children's drawings in crayon and pencil. The centrepiece of the room was Dr Davis' big desk. She was seated in a big swivel chair behind it and facing her were two small, cheap armchairs, one of which was now occupied by Aunt Sharon. It reminded Amy of the headmistresses' office, in a way. It was just as uninviting a room, except that it was pretending to be and failing miserably at fooling anyone, which was even worse.

"Don't you want to sit down, Amelia?" asked Dr Davis. Her tone was warmer than Amy had expected it to be, causing her to startle, then relax. Warm tone or no, it didn't make her like Dr Davis any better, but Aunt Sharon was beckoning her to come sit, too, so Amy nodded slowly and climbed into the armchair. Her feet didn't quite reach the floor unless she sat uncomfortably on the very edge of the seat, leaning forwards, so she let them dangle. She put on her very best poker face.

"How are you doing today, Amelia?" asked Dr Davis. She smiled.

Amy glanced over at Aunt Sharon, who was sitting stiffly in her armchair; she was clutching the purse in her lap so tightly her knuckles were white. She waited for her aunt to say something, but she didn't, so Amy turned back to Dr Davis. "Amy," she said flatly.

"Oh, I'm very sorry," said Dr Davis. "I didn't know. Then how are you doing today, Amy?"

Amy shrugged, and Dr Davis pursed her lips. Her eyes wandered to Aunt Sharon, who shook her head slightly. Then Dr Davis leaned forward over her desk with her hands clasped. "Now, Amy, you and I are going to get to know each other a little, all right? We'll have a very nice little chat, but first I want to ask your aunt a few questions and then it will be just you and me. How does that sound?" She asked it just as warmly, but it was the sort of question that already had an expected answer; such questions came from grown-ups once in a while and Amy knew when to spot them. She gave the obligatory response:

"Okay."

Dr Davis smiled. "Lovely. Now, you can go out and read or play in the waiting room, if you like, or you can stay here and listen if you don't think you'll get too bored."

"I want to stay here," Amy said immediately, not trusting either her aunt or Dr Davis for a second. Who knew what sort of conferencing and plotting they might do behind her back? She wasn't stupid.

But Dr Davis nodded, and then began to act completely as though Amy wasn't even in the room, a curiosity especially since all the questions were ones she could have answered just as well herself. Better, even. Moreover, the conversation between the grown-up ladies was boring, and she mostly tuned them out and took to daydreaming, checking in on them every once in a while.

"… and you've been her guardian for how long?"

"Four and a half years, legally — ever since her parents died, that is to say. She's my older brother's daughter … no, no, I've never been married … she's a good girl; really she is: bit stubborn, but a good girl. Smart … no, I'm afraid I'm usually busy at work seven days a week … yes, that started around September, maybe … no …. around Easter, yes, right exactly about then …. oh, no, no … "

Amy's hazel eyes darted over to Aunt Sharon at the mention of Easter. Suddenly she was on full alert. Suddenly she knew full well why she was here, and she wasn't afraid anymore, but angry. Angry at Aunt Sharon for not believing her and angry at everyone else who didn't believe her and … and angry at the Doctor for being so late. But for him she could lay aside most sour feelings; she could forgive him at least.

It seemed a long time before Dr Davis turned her attention to Amy with the words, "Now then, Amy, as I said — it's to be just you and me, all right? We're just going to talk." She glanced at Aunt Sharon, who took this as her cue to leave. She reached over to stroke Amy's hair as she went. The child ducked out of the way. Aunt Sharon paused, sighed, and took her leave.

Meanwhile Dr Davis was staring at the seven-year-old on the seat in front of her intently. She was a tall girl for her seven years; she looked closer to nine. Her arms were crossed over her chest and there was a stubborn set to her jaw. Dr Davis removed her glasses, produced her cleaning cloth from its usual place at the front of her top drawer, and polished the lenses before putting them back on. She leaned forward and laced her fingers together. "So, then, Amy," she began. The child just stared at her. "I don't know how much you listened to that conversation, but your aunt was telling me you have a runaway imagination."

Amy shrugged. "I like to play make-believe," she said guardedly. "Sometimes." She decided to say as little as possible to Dr Davis.

Dr Davis smiled at her. "Make-believe is a very nice game," she agreed. "And she says you like to read books very much, too. She says you're a very bright little girl. Do you have a favourite story?"

"The Legend of Pandora's Box," Amy said at once, for it was true. It was her very favourite story, and she knew it off by heart. She could have recited the story of the girl with all the gifts right then and there if Dr Davis asked her to, and a couple of the other Greek myths as well: she also liked the story of Prometheus and of Hades and Persephone and of Adonis and Aphrodite.

"Greek myths? That's a very good story. Most children don't know the Greek myths," said Dr Davis. "Your aunt is right; you are a smart girl." She said it warmly, but in that coddling tone that only the very worst grown-ups used with children, the kind that suggested they didn't think children were all that bright at all. Amy resented her all the more.

From there Dr Davis talked to Amy a little more about the stories she liked, and what other games she liked to play, and she asked Amy about what classes she liked at school and about her friend. Amy told her as little as possible. "I have two best friends," she said dully. "Mels and Rory. They're in my class." The conversation went on and Amy wasn't altogether sure what to think. She was bracing herself for Dr Davis to start telling her to stop believing in the Doctor, but she didn't. In fact, she didn't even mention the Doctor — or the crack in Amy's wall — at all, so the girl found that she was answering Dr Davis' questions with a little more detail each time.

Dr Davis asked her some more questions, and then she got up and crossed the room. From the cupboard she fetched a sheet of printer paper and a box of assorted crayons, coloured pencils, and Magic Markers. These she delivered to Amy, and now sat in the armchair Aunt Sharon had been occupying. "Now, would you like to draw something, Amy? You can use anything you want, and draw whatever you want." She smiled as Amy blinked at her, then appraised the selection of tools she'd been presented with. "Just something small."

Amy reached for the blue coloured pencil. She didn't need to even think about what she wanted to draw. She glanced up at Dr Davis, who just looked at her encouragingly. The pencil in one hand, she scooted forward a little on the armchair, hunched over the paper, and set to work.

She didn't put forward all the effort she usually would for a drawing, so it only took her about fifteen minutes rather than a half hour. When she was finished, she wrote her name in one corner in crayon, like she did for her school art projects. With that finishing took, she set her crayon down and looked up at Dr Davis with a superior expression. Dr Davis reached for the paper slowly, as if it were beckoning her, saying very quietly to Amy, "May I …?" Amy nodded, and with tentative fingers Dr Davis took the drawing.

She held it out at arm's length, and studied it very closely. She nodded to herself, and scribbled something down in her notebook. Then she looked up, and put the drawing on the table. It sat between them, forming some undeterminable barrier between woman and child. Dr Davis put one hand on her knee, and the other on the table, fingering a corner of the sheet of paper. "Do you want to tell me about your picture, Amelia?"

Amy looked at the picture and answered, refusing to make eye contact with Dr Davis. "It's me, and the Raggedy Doctor, my best friend, standing in front of his time machine."

Dr Davis nodded, and prompted Amy to talk more about her friend, and Amy launched into the familiar story — how the Doctor had crashed his time machine in her garden at night, destroying the shed in the process, and she told her of fish custard, and how the Doctor had fixed the crack in her wall, and everything that had happened afterwards, ending on the firm note that just because her Raggedy Doctor was weeks late, it didn't mean he was never going to come. She knew that he would, in time. The whole time she talked, Dr Davis nodded a lot, and gave quite a few "Mm-hmm"s, and jotted things down in her notebook.

"So … this Raggedy Doctor, as you call him … how old is he?"

Amy shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't ask him. A grown-up, but not the old kind."

"Well, Amy … " — Dr Davis pushed her glasses up her nose — "do you know what it looks like to me?" She took the drawing again, and stowed it away in the one of the little pockets of her binder. Amy blinked at her, and this doctor sighed and let out a wry chuckle. "Your aunt did tell me, and it looks like she's right, that you have a very big and sometimes runaway imagination … "

The lecture that followed was delivered in a very patient and kind tone. It was different than the usual stuff Amy got from Aunt Sharon, but all the same, with each word she found her resentment of Dr Davis mounting. It was all about how she must feel lonely since her parents died, especially with her aunt being so busy at work all the time, and how she must feel alienated from the other children at school because her Scottish brogue made her stick out a mile; how these feelings were all right to have. Understandable. And sometimes, children in her situation would dream themselves up imaginary friends, which was all good and well so long as they didn't allow their imaginations to get the better of them, to be lost to obsession, which was unhealthy …

Needless to say, Amy tuned her out. She didn't care about all the fancy words, about the long and dull and lecture delivered by yet another cynical grown-up, however patiently. What counted was that Dr Davis was telling her that her Raggedy Doctor wasn't real.

So Amy bit her.

.~*~*~*~.

What followed was not pretty. Dr Davis had let out a yelp as Amy clamped her teeth onto her hand, and next thing Aunt Sharon came rushing in. There was a flurry of apologising on Aunt Sharon's part, and Amy was taken by the shoulders and shaken. She was finally taken by the wrist and marched out the door, leaving behind a shocked, flustered, but fuming psychiatrist.

Aunt Sharon marched Amy all the way to the car. "I don't believe it … what's the matter with you, Amelia?! … where do you get on, eh, behaving like that? … I just can't believe you … "

They reached the car and Aunt Sharon finally let go of her niece to open the car door, sort of shoved Amy inside, and slammed the door shut again before going to the driver's seat. She put the keys in the ignition, but didn't turn them. Instead she spun on Amy, who was buckling her seatbelt and not paying her aunt the time of day. "What's gotten into you, Amelia, eh?! What were you thinking?"

Amy crossed her arms over her chest. "Amy," she retorted stubbornly, for she didn't feel an ounce of guilt for biting that rotten old lady. In fact she felt rather proud of herself.

Aunt Sharon shook her head. "Oh, no, young lady … now is most absolutely not the time for sweet nicknames." She wheeled, and punched the steering wheel, causing it to toot, before turning on her niece again. "What on earth were you thinking?"

Amy looked out the window. "She said my Doctor's imaginary," she answered sullenly, and shrugged to show just how indifferent she was in regards to the matter.

Which was when Aunt Sharon gave up. She started the car and turned the radio on very loud, shaking her head and muttering to herself the whole way back to Leadworth.

They did not end up seeing Toy Story.