Wilf (Donna's Grandfather)
Wilf has always thought of his grand-daughter as being somewhat like a live grenade. He stirs his tea absent-mindedly, reflecting. He remembers every stage of her life, and the rememberences make him smile. In his mind's eye he sees her again, a red-faced, bawling baby, running her mother ragged. A flame-haired, laughing child, shooting through the sitting-room and tumbling out into the garden at the speed of light, like a little tornado. "You never see Donna," he remembers her mother grumbling, as she stared at the demolished play-room, "but you know where she's been, alright." A stroppy, sulky teenager, prone to savage fits of temper. Wilf grins a little, as he adds sugar to his tea. All those boys, when Donna was a teenager . . . she knew how to keep them in check alright! Poor buggers. He suppresses a laugh, because it is after midnight and if he wakes up Sylvia there'll be hell to pay. And she wonders where Donna gets that temper from . . . .
Crossing to the sitting-room, he sighs. His Donna . . . she's certainly something. But these days, she resembles a live grenade more than ever. He only wishes it was her temper he had to fear. He'd take that any day, over the truth . . . . She can't remember. Not ever. Not even for an instant, because if she does . . . it'll destroy her. Some days, Wilf feels as if he's walking on eggshells, trying to keep her safe from herself. After all – he doesn't know the full extent of her adventures with the Doctor, so he doesn't know what might be a trigger. Any little thing might jog her memory, might bring the whole house of cards tumbling down . . . He shudders. Not on my watch.
She is asleep now, curled up on the sofa. The film she has been watching is long over, but the television screen flickers away anyway, lighting the gloom, and the canned laughter from one of her favourite sitcoms emerges in fits and starts. He smiles down at her, fondly. Television, of course, is turning out to be Wilf's biggest nemesis. It's hard enough keeping her away from science-fiction and spaceships, but even advertisements are a headache. Just last week, for instance, there was the one about child slavery. All those little children in Third World countries, exploited in carpet factories and sweatshops . . . the old Donna would have been as guilty as Wilf himself of turning a blind eye. But no. This time, she had stopped and gone quite pale, and all of a sudden made up her mind to donate a quarter of that week's wages to the children's aid charity in question. And over breakfast the next day, she had confided in her grandfather, in a half-guilty, half-confused tone, that she didn't even know why she'd done it. "I mean, what am I? Daft!" she'd laughed. Wilf looks down at her sleeping form now, and feels his heart swell with pride. She's far from daft, his Donna. There are people out there, right now, on planets circling distant stars, who are happy and free and alive, because of his Donna.
The next day, Wilf takes her out to lunch. He does that sometimes, whenever he is most reminded, because it doesn't seem right, somehow, that everything she did should be forgotten, even if she herself can't remember it. Donna goes along with it like a good girl, indulging her grandad's occasional flights of fancy. They are midway through desert when it happens. Donna is amusing him with an impression of her latest boss, when suddenly a man two tables over clutches at his chest and starts to gasp and choke, his face turning a ruddy, ominous shade of red. A heart attack. Wilf knows the signs. Poor sod. The majority of the restaurant's patrons leap to their feet as one, screaming for help. Donna is one of the first to leave her seat, though she knows as much First-Aid as the apple pie on her plate. And then it happens.
The blonde lass sitting with the unfortunate heart-attack victim is shaking him and screaming. "Oh my god, someone please help . . . I need a phone! Someone call a-"
His heart stops. Everything seems to have slowed down, like in the films. Slow motion, they call it. The woman calls out for help, frantic, and he knows the next word on her tongue will be 'doctor'. Donna freezes, and her eyes glaze over. She frowns a little, as the memory starts to fall into place, and he knows the next word will damn her.
"Medic!"
He realizes that the hoarse, crabbed voice which has shouted this one desperate word is his own. Twenty pairs of eyes swivel to face him, astonished, but he doesn't care for any of them. His eyes are locked on Donna's face, devouring every nuance of his grand-daughter's expression, hoping, praying . . .
And then a miracle happens. Her expression clears, and she closes her mouth and lets out a snort of laughter.
"Medic?" she scoffs. "What are you like, eh?"
And Wilf breathes again.