There's not much of bang-whoosh-kaboom in this story (yet), I know. But there's a bit of lovely Cardiff I hope to visit soon again (just to recharge my batteries with some Rift's energy). This chapter is for Wilfred Mott, a Grandfather extraordinaire, one of my favourite characters. And, of course, for you. Thanks a lot for first reviews. And here we go...


.3. A Standstill


Wilfred stood by the window, looking out at Bae Caerdydd. Torchwood paid for his accommodation – a cold, modern apartment, with glazed walls, letting in the cool blueness of the sky and greyness of the water. There was an antique merry-go-round swivelling in front of the Pierhead Building; people kept crowding on the embankment; a water sculpture, towering over the Hub, reflected sunrays and redirected them to the Wales Millennium Centre's calligraphic front. There was life there; some form of life; even if to Wilf it seemed more like a moving picture on a newfangled, plasma TV's screen. In his apartment everything was in a standstill. He didn't even try to overcome the frigidity of a designer's interior – just one look at aggressive combination of colours; at exclusive, modernistic furniture; at incomprehensible appliances behind the kitchen island – and Wilf gave up without a fight. Whatever it was supposed to be – a temporary harbour, a waiting room, a hotel apartment, a weird dream – such interior could never become a home.

"I've made you some tea." Martha came closer carrying two mugs, and handed one of them to Wilfred. "I've checked your fridge. Do you eat at all?"

"There's a chip-shop by the pier," Wilf said. "Sometimes I order pizza."

"Pepperoni? Ianto always orders pepperoni for me."

"Hmm? Yes. I guess."

"Wilfred," Martha gently touched the old man's shoulder. "Starving yourself won't help Donna. I'll pop in tomorrow, and cook a real dinner, yeah? Well, all right, I'll nuke something in the microwave. Cooking's not my strong suit."

"Oh, you doctors and scientists." Wilf gave her a pale smile. He finally turned his gaze away from Cardiff Bay. He walked to a sofa and sank in its brown, leather softness. "You can extract an appendix, but you can't peel spuds."

Martha sat in the armchair opposite him. She had longer, softly curling hair now. Her beautiful eyes were full of concern.

"A gorgeous girl," Wilf thought. "This gorgeous girl could have smashed the Earth into one million pieces; all she had to do was use that Oster-whats-his-name key. Such a tiny and fragile, gorgeous girl. My Donna had never been so fragile. But it was Donna who drew the short straw."

For a while Wilf was almost angry at Martha. She had travelled with the Doctor too, but unlike Donna, she was reasonable enough to say "no" just in time.

"How did you manage last Friday?" Martha asked. "Any damages?"

"All the light bulbs shattered, and I think the TV in the bedroom bought it; it's either that or I can't set up the blooming digibox." Wilf shrugged. "I got the wind up, that's all. Do you know that waves were reaching my window?"

"A lot of rubbish washed on the shore," Martha said.

"Alien rubbish?" After all he had witnessed, Wilf still found it hard to believe in presence of the Rift and in signs of alien life.

Martha nodded.

"We had our hands full with it." She smiled. "You know what's really annoying? Most of this rubbish will turn out to be... I don't know... hairdryers and fryers. Or weapons," she added hesitantly. "Ninety percent of all our finds proves to be useless trash. But then there are real treasures. Take the universal decoder; it will decode anything; let some thieve put his hands on that toy, and he could empty all the accounts in all the banks around the world, and not leave even a single trace. And the day before yesterday I found this."

She reached out and placed something on the glossy surface of the low table. It reminded an exotic shell, made of mellowed metal, tinted green.

"No idea," she sighed. "But when I touch it, very gently, it radiates light and scent. Both of them absolutely harmless."

"Why are you telling me this, girl?" Wilf asked. If she wanted to distract him from his granddaughter, she'd chosen a failing strategy.

"Give it a try," Martha said.

"What?"

"Touch it."

Wilfred shook his head. The shell was beautiful; its spiralling outgrowths glimmered with sapphire and pastel green. Still, he could see no reason to touch it.

"Wilf," Martha leaned forward in her armchair. "Just hold it. Please."

With a puff of irritation, Wilf put the tea mug aside, and picked up the shell. It was heavy and pleasantly cold.

"Move your fingers across, like that, very gently," Martha directed.

The shell began to glow. Light radiation surrounded it like a cloud – gold and turquoise, flowing into deep purple, darkening and then exploding with spirals of crimson and gold. It smelled of freshly mown grass and something sweet; maybe apple-pie.

"Yeeeeaaah..." Wilf said. "That's... nice... but..."

"Just wait," Martha interrupted. "That's a default, a factory setting. Don't stop stroking it."

"Martha..."

"Oh, please, do it for me."

The light was now rusty, changing into that faintest shade of approaching night on a lovely, summer twilight. And the smell was familiar – a water in a lake, weeds by the shore, a bonfire's smoke, jasmine? Somebody's presence; somebody's warm skin, fresh and pulsating with life and youth? Martha was watching Wilf with her huge eyes. Embarrassed, he put the shell down and reached for his mug. His tea was stone cold.

"What?" he stammered. "How... how long...?"

"Half an hour," Martha answered. "How are you feeling?"

"I... ehm... I feel fine... very good!" Wilf gave the shell, sitting innocently on the table, a distrustful glance. "What is it? I mean, really?"

"An Air Wick." Martha shrugged. "An equivalent of a mood candle or one of those diffusers you plug into the wall socket. It's just a bit more advanced. It tunes itself to your mood and produces best suited fragrances and colours, to help you calm down and relax. At least that's what we think."

"That's... lovely..." Wilf murmured. "Why did you bring it here?"

"You have a weak heart, Wilfred. I know, 'cause I've scanned you... oh, sorry, I shouldn't have, but you looked so miserable, I started worrying. No, no, no, you are all right," she said immediately. "You are not sick, just overtired and overstressed. And stress and tiredness are killers in your age. I can't order you to rest, to eat better, and not think about Donna, so I brought you the Cornucopia."

"Corn-nu-whata-who?"

"We've named it a Horn of Plenty. A Cornucopia," Martha gave him a wide smile. "It's Ianto; he names those... gizmos all the time. He should be writing comic books scenarios, our Ianto. Well, Mickey wanted to call it a Smell Shell, so you can see why we've chosen a Cornucopia."

"Ye...ah?"

"Every night, before going to sleep, a séance with the Cornucopia," Martha said in an unmistakable tone of a doctor advising her patient.

"You don't want me to think about Donna?" There was anger in Wilfred's voice.

"Wilfred," Martha rubbed her forehead. "It may take a while. It may take a very long while. We're doing our best, but, so far, we don't even know what we're looking for. Each and every item in that pile of rubbish, which washed on a shore last Friday, may help us cure Donna. But then again, maybe hairdryers and fryers are all we've got. You have to be patient. And you have to take care of yourself. Regain your strength."

Wilf felt a momentary urge to throw Cornucopia through the huge window; to sink it in the waves whence it came from.

"Doing your best, are you?! Martha Jones, even he doesn't know what he's doing! I remember what he said when he brought her home. One second of memory and Donna's mind would burn. But what if... if her mind's burned already? What if my little girl is not there anymore... just... just that strange person... a bit of a Time Lord, a bit of a human...? What good can all those... gizmos do?!"

"I don't know," Martha said. Her mouth twitched dolefully. "None of us knows. But we're not giving up."

"You have enough on your plate!" He turned away, upset. "All them hellish storms, and underground tremors, and them shadows – shadows on the streets – and new diseases, and what else. You've shelved Donna, that's what; you've put her away on top of that deal with in the second instance pile of cases. And the Doctor did the same! You say all of you're doing your best, but it's only you Martha, my child, it's just you! And he won't even call; won't even ask about her. Won't even..."

"Wilfred," Martha whispered. "Please."

"All right. I can play with that Corn-on-a-cobia of yours before I go to sleep, what does it matter? None of you knows what else we could do. And if even the Doctor doesn't know... What're the odds you'll find that one, special contraption in all that junk? And what're the odds you'll even understand what it'll be for?"

Martha bit her lips.

"Look, I was on the planet Messaline with Donna," she spoke suddenly, her voice strong and clear. "And we've met during the ATMOS crisis. I know her. Your Donna is a great woman, Wilfred. A strong woman. Do you realise how much I wanted to hate her for... you know, for taking my place... and all that? But it's impossible not to love her. She's my friend. Trust me, I won't stop trying to find something that'd help her, even if I had to turn the bottom of the bay with a rake. And Jack won't stop. Or Mickey. I spoke with Sarah Jane yesterday. Luke, her son, had a few ideas; they are trying to analyse them together now. Harriet Jones popped in earlier today. She's backing up Torchwood with funds and support, even though the government had never interfered with the Crown's enterprises..."

"But the Doctor didn't call?"

"No." Martha's lips twitched again.

"You know, child, maybe my daughter was right," Wilf said with a sigh. "When she judged the Doctor. Maybe she was right."

"I'm sure that the Doctor..." Martha began, absolutely refusing to admit that Sylvia could have been right in anything at all.

"Doesn't matter." Wilf shook the Cornucopia. "Are you sure it won't scramble my brain?"

Martha got up from her armchair, smoothing out her dress.

"No. I'm not." She laughed briefly. "And you better not tell Jack I've given it to you. He's terribly jumpy about taking objects out of the Hub."

She nodded her head at Wilf.

"I've got to go, I've pushed it already; it was supposed to be a lunch-break. I'll pop in tomorrow, as promised. D'you like Chinese?"

"I like Englise, child."

"Bangers and mash, and peas, and gravy then," laughed Martha. "And then, hmmm, bread and butter pudding?"

"Wonderful," said Wilf, seeing her to the door. "I'll be waiting."

"OK, it's a date." She winked at him and closed the door behind her. The elderly man smiled weakly. He walked back to the lounge, shoulders hunched, dragging his legs, seated the Cornucopia in the middle of the table top and sank in the sofa. He was staring at the shell with a crestfallen expression on his face. All his life he watched the stars and would give anything to come into possession of an alien artefact.

He'd give anything, but not Donna. Not Donna.


To be continued...