Little Talks
Although the truth may vary
This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore
"I'm coming!" Clara yelled, wiping her hands on the damp dishcloth.
Someone was at the front door.
Composing herself – remember you're still British – she walked into the living room, curious and a little apprehensive as to who might have been calling. It was the first day John was at work, and she wasn't expecting him or anyone else at the door.
"Hello and welcome!" the woman on the other side of the door said, waving cheerfully. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and her eyes were heavily lined.
"Hello," Clara smiled. "How can I help you?"
"The question is, how can I help you?" the woman asked, sounding amused as she stepped in without being invited. Her combat boots made a loud noise on the floor. "My name is Trisa D. I'm a friend of John's. Trisa like 'Trisha', but without an 's'. Tacky, I know."
"Oh." Clara's smile faded a little. "I don't remember him ever mentioning you."
"Really?" Trisa said, turning to look at Clara with a bright grin. "That's rather rude, considering I'm the reason you're both where you are."
"How do you mean?" Clara felt the beginnings of a headache. She hadn't closed the door yet, not sure if she wanted this woman in her house at all.
"Well, to be more precise, I'm – partly, anyway- the reason he has a job in this city…" Trisa's tone gentled. "I'm sorry, I'm being extremely rude. Shall we start over? I can stand outside and wait for you to let me in like a normal human would."
Clara relaxed, finally closing the front door. "No need. I'm the one who's being rude. Can I get you a cup of tea? John's at work right now though, if you're looking for him."
"Oh I know," the visitor followed her hostess into the kitchen. "I wanted to come see how you were doing. John and I are always in touch."
"How do the two of you know each other?" Clara rummaged around her cabinets, trying to remember where she had stored her mugs. Her eyebrows furrowed in consternation at the realization that she had forgotten how she had organized her kitchen.
"We've known each other so long," The other woman said, settling herself down on one of the counter stools, adjusting her flowing skirt carefully. "Ancient history as some might say."
Clara glanced around, noticing the greys streaking Trisa's hair. She suddenly felt a pang of something that seemed a lot like jealousy. "Were the two of you…"
"Oh goodness. Nothing like that." Trisa said after a releasing a bright peal of laughter. "No, we're just friends. Very good friends."
As she mentally berated herself for that moment of thoughtlessness, Clara found the kettle. Filling it with cold tap water, she set it on the stove and turned around to face her guest with a wide grin.
"Well it's nice to finally meet you Trisa D." she said. "What does the 'D' stand for?"
"It stands for something long, complicated and a tad bit boring." Trisa smiled. "How are you liking everything? The house? Canada? Anything you have questions about?"
"Lots of things," Clara said. "Not sure where I would start. This house itself takes some time to get used to."
"Oh?" Trisa leaned forward. "How so?"
It's a new house, Clara wanted to say. Those always take some getting used to.
"I think it's haunted." She said instead. "Or at least, I think there's something…not right about the house. Sometimes, I think I'm afraid of it."
Trisa listened intently.
"I'm…sorry." Clara shook her head, reaching for the boiling kettle and setting it on a trivet. She went back to rummaging for her mugs which she still couldn't find. "I sound ridiculous. Probably just the stress of moving."
Trisa got up and crossed the space between the women. She reached out and grasped Clara's hands in her own.
"It's perfectly fine to talk about it." She told the younger woman. "You don't sound ridiculous at all."
It was strange – Clara was not necessarily fond of strangers getting too close. In this instance, if anything, she was just surprised.
Something clattered loudly on one of the upper floors of the house, causing both women to look up.
"You better go get that," For the first time since Trisa arrived, her smile had disappeared; she kept on looking up at the ceiling. "I have to get to something else right about now anyway."
"Oh." Clara said, feeling irrationally disappointed. "Ok."
"Here," Trisa said, handing over a card that Clara hadn't realized she had been holding. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I'm available for John and his Clara at any given moment – I promise."
"Thanks…I think…" Clara took the card and followed Trisa back to the front door. "Perhaps we can all grab a drink sometime – you, me and John."
Trisa turned sideways and peered at her. Clara wasn't sure, but the older woman seemed a little wistful.
As the door closed behind Trisa, Clara looked at the card in her hand.
It said
Trisa D.
Professional TT, S&R
416-582-7347
"Huh." Clara said, and placed the card on the side table beside the stairway.
Something rattled upstairs once again.
Even during the day, the stairs were not the most cheerful part of the house, tucked away from all the windows as they were.
Looking upstairs was like peering into an alternate shadowy universe, quite apart from the otherwise bright and cheerful space.
The noise was coming from the attic, the entrance of which was only just visible from where she stood.
She supposed there was always the chance raccoons had gotten into their house. Or perhaps, there might have been a draught blowing in from some gap nobody else had ever spotted before.
Neither John nor herself had been up there yet. They had talked about storing unnecessary belongings in the attic, but they hadn't actually gotten around to it.
Which led to the question – what was up there, if not their things?
Her words to Trisa, spoken less than three minutes ago, repeated themselves in her mind. Gingerly, she placed one foot in front of the other, slowly ascending the stairs. When she finally reached the top of the stairs, her fingers reached for the cord hanging from the ceiling, which would have drawn down the ladder to the attic.
As her fingertips brushed the plastic ring tied to the end of the string, a shrill and sudden ringing caused her to jump.
It was only her cell phone, she realized as she stood there, breathing hard.
Slowly, she walked back downstairs to find her cell phone resting on the side table beside Trisa's card.
"Clara Oswald speaking," she said, touching the green answer button on her phone and making her way back to the kitchen.
"It's me," John was the other end, sounding faraway. "Are you ok?"
"Yes," she said tersely, wondering if she was lying. "Are you?"
He seemed as if he needed to think about it.
"As long as you're safe." He said at last.
It was an odd answer. Clara didn't know how to respond, so she waited another few seconds, before she asked,
"What time will you be home for dinner?"
"I don't know." He replied.
"It's your first day, you can't get out sooner than 'I don't know'," she felt a little peeved.
"Clara, I'm not hanging around having fun over here. I'm working. They're paying me a lot of money for every minute I'm here." He sounded exasperated.
"Right," She laughed mirthlessly. "Fine. I'll see you whenever."
Clara tapped the red button on the phone's touch screen, ending the call.
The satisfaction of hanging up on her husband lasted for about two seconds before it gave way to regret. Shutting her eyes, leaning with her back against the kitchen counter, she massaged her temples against the full blown headache that had developed.
When next she opened her eyes, she stared long and hard at the sight before her.
Two cheerful red mugs sat not too far away, waiting for her to fill them.
The weeks flew by, and perhaps it was the fatigue, but Clara could only remember them as a passing blur.
They were, she knew, filled with the business of settling into this strange new city, making adjustments to their living space and finding a new job.
Not that there were much teaching jobs available for an Englishwoman without any French skills, as it turned out.
Moreover, as it turned out, there was a language barrier of sorts.
"Sorry?" The cashier looked blankly at Clara after she had politely asked to pay by Visa one day.
"I said," Clara spoke slowly. "Can I please pay with my credit card."
The teenager looked as if Clara had just insulted her multicolored hair. She pressed a few buttons and gestured towards the credit card machine.
"It's going to take me a while to sound like an American," Clara said with a nervous laugh and immediately regretted it when the cashier shot her an even dirtier look.
"We don't speak American." The girl said stiffly, and proceeded to ignore her customer.
Bloody Toronto – slightly less rude than New York City, slightly more polite than London, infinitely more confusing than either. So much for the stereotype of the pleasant Canadian.
"Honestly, can they please make up their mind on how they want to spell things?" Clara gestured with her glass of Ontario Chardonnay, which she was finding extremely drinkable. There were redeeming features to this place after all.
"I have to keep repeating myself at work." John shook his head from the other side of their small dining table, twirling spaghetti with his fork. "I would have said it's because my new assistant is slow, but that's not true. It's everyone. Or rather, it's me."
"How are things with that manager of yours?" she asked. "Still hate him?"
"I barely see him. When I do though…" John paused. "I don't know what it is. Perhaps I do know him from somewhere else…either way, I still bloody hate his guts."
"And the work?" she chewed and swallowed. "How's that going?"
"Its fine I guess." He frowned, pausing in his movements. "There are so many lines of numbers I work through…they all become a blur after a while."
Clara was about to ask if John wanted to get a drink with Trisa sometime during the weekend, when he looked up at her and asked, "How's your own job search coming along? Any leads?"
"Yes!" Clara grinned before she took another sip of her wine. "I've gotten myself a job as a tutor for some kids needing help with their English and Geography."
"Quickly, where's France? Can you tell me without looking at your phone?" John joked as he put down his empty wine glass.
"Oh stick it." she laughed, lightheaded both from the good news, the wine and John.
John studied her across the table, and said, very quietly, "I love you."
"I love you too." She sounded quite happy.
"Clara…" he put his fork down.
"What is it? Have you gone and shagged your assistant?" Clara's suddenly felt a little desperate. She sensed the sudden shift in mood, sensed the levity slipping away.
The coldness that settled over his features told her that it was the wrong thing to joke about.
"Ironic, coming from you." He stood up, and as he did so, he pushed his chair back with loud screech.
"That's not fair." Clara put her own glass down and leaned back, not looking at him.
She could feel him looking at her, and it made her suddenly feel sick to her stomach. The silences between them were becoming too much to bear, but on the other hand, she wasn't sure that anything she could say would help.
"I suppose you're right." He admitted finally. "I'm…sorry."
"We can't even have dinner anymore like normal people can we?" she asked. "Not a single, real conversation without either of us trying to rip the other person's throat out."
"No…not since…" John seemed unable to finish his sentence.
Clara sighed.
Danny Pink.
The name the hung unspoken between them.
In the TARDIS, the Dreamlord circled the console.
"What do you think you can achieve exactly?" he questioned out loud.
Looking down at an unconscious Clara, he knelt down beside her and stroked her cheek, smiling as he added,
"There's not much you can do, either way. She's mine now."
Clara groaned softly, as if in pain.