THE SHOP
Another two weeks passed without the detector detecting. Martha was starting to get rather bored simply cooling her heels in 1969, and the Doctor was positively crawling out of his skin. She spent her days working, which wasn't horrible, but it wasn't exactly stimulating, either. If she couldn't be travelling across time and space in the TARDIS, at least she'd have liked to get back to medicine. The Doctor, for his part, had developed a reputation in the building for being a guy who knew how to fix things (thanks to Billy), so he spent some days in other people's flats rewiring the creepy blinking lightbulbs and making the plumbing livable so as not to collect mould. Perotta the landlord was not exactly prompt and punctual, so the Doctor stepped in. What else was he going to do?
They spent some of their evenings socialising with Billy Shipton and Sally Pfitzinger. She had reconciled with her father, and Billy was now working for him. Mr. Pfitzinger had briefly put him in bookbinding, but when he had showed a knowledge and enthusiasm beyond his years (and indeed beyond the year of 1969), Billy was placed in the video development division, which, at the time, was just a fledgling industry. Billy was exactly where he needed to be in order for Martha and the Doctor's plan really to go off properly, and fortunately, he found the work rather fascinating.
Fifteen days after their trip to the planet Fadsnell, Martha dragged herself into the flat as though her entire body were made of wet mop. The Doctor was sitting in an armchair fixing something.
"Hello love," he said, without looking at her. "See you still exist today."
"Yeah, well," she answered, slinking down into the sofa. "After the day I've had, I wouldn't say no to a good time paradox right now. Do we have any alcohol?"
"There's still some of that expensive Scotch that Pfitzinger gave us for fixing the editing terminal. Why, what happened?"
"Augh," she groaned. "This lady... no, lady is too kind. This fat, rude, shrill cow of a human being came into the store today. She wanted a personal shopper." Martha stated this last bit with exaggerated air quotes.
"Already? It's 1969!"
"I know! But fancy telling her that. Anyway, I followed her around the store picking out anything that might be slimming (her idea, not mine), but she kept saying no to everything I suggested and picking out horizontal stripes in yellow and insisting on light-coloured trousers which only made her bottom look like the white cliffs of Dover."
The Doctor finally took his attention from his work and looked at her. She was haggard, and she had never known her to be quite so insulting toward or about anyone, even if they deserved it. "Blimey, Martha."
"I know, I look like hell. That's because after she blamed me for all of the unflattering outfits she'd chosen, she told my boss that I was an ineffectual salesperson and I got reamed for forty-five minutes by Mrs. Langley, who smells like feet. Her office must be, like, a million degrees. I'm sweating, I'm hungry, I'm pissed off, and I want to leave this bloody year. I have not spent three years in medical school for this."
Suddenly, the Doctor felt quite guilty. He had known that she wasn't particularly happy with their existence here, that she simply tolerated it because he said they needed to stay long enough to prevent Frannie Obeng from getting zapped the next time she went back to Wester Drumlins. But this was the first time he had realised that he was sort of wasting Martha's life by making her stay here. He had, potentially, all the time in the world to wait this out, but Martha did not. She was already 24 years old, and she may have as few as sixty years left! And she was right – she was far too educated and clever for the likes of this.
"I'm sorry, Martha," he said, setting the contraption down on the coffee table. He stood and came to sit beside her on the sofa. He put his arm around her, and she leaned in. "Would it help if I told you that someone called me 'the bloody wannabe handyman' today?"
"What?" she asked, smiling for the first time all afternoon.
"Can you believe it? My people invented inverted-spatial technology, which involved developing a process for molecular dissolution and reconstitution upon a threshold of one nanosecond for any being or piece of matter in the known universe. Sounds simple, but it's not! I carry a sonic device in my pocket which could crash the space shuttle from here if I wanted it to. I'm a Time Lord , for God's sake, and he called me a wannabe handyman. Not even the handyman. The wannabe handyman. Let's see him rewire a lightbulb socket in seven minutes!"
"Let me guess: Perotta?" she asked, still smiling a bit guiltily.
"Of course," he said. "He was all in a twist because I... I don't know, violated his super-sacred landlord turf or something. I guess he heard I'd been fixing the things he hadn't gotten around to and decided to make an arse of himself."
Both were quiet for a long moment, leaning against each other in mutual exasperation and comfort. Finally, Martha said, "Doctor, we have to get out of here. I mean, for good."
"Well," he sighed. "I suppose we can't wait around forever. We may need to think about leaving well-enough alone. Whoa – there's a novel thought, eh?"
"You mean, just assume she won't go back there, and leave this year without really knowing?"
"Yep."
Martha sighed. "You know what my hang-up is, but I trust you. I'll work at that shop as long as you need me to."
"Well, there's no reason for you to have to go back there... in fact, there's no reason to live in this flat anymore. We have everything we need in the TARDIS. Even if we stay a few more days, we can at least get out of this rat trap. After I put this thing right, of course." He leaned forward and picked up the thing he'd been working on before.
"I told you not to dismantle that thing," she said, looking at the movie projector he had dissected in order to make his Timey-Wimey Detector.
"I had it out, mining it for parts again, when Perotta came. He threw an absolute fit. I told him I'd have it fixed by tomorrow, but I looked for the missing parts in the TARDIS this afternoon, and I don't have any such camera parts from this era – 1946 or so. I may just have to go shopping for them."
"Okay, you do that, and I'll quit my job. The two of us can move back into the TARDIS tomorrow. Not living here will help a lot."
"And if Miss Obeng doesn't turn up at Wester Drumlins by Friday, then we're out of here, okay?"
"Can we do that?"
"Worse things have happened." he told her.
"Hello, sir, what can I do for you?" asked the older gent behind the counter of McCormick's Antiques Shop.
"Are you McCormick?" asked the Doctor.
"Indeed."
The Doctor heaved the heavy projector out of the satchel in which he had been carrying it and set it on the table. "I don't suppose you've got anything like this? Or even just some of the parts?"
The man inspected it. "Oh, I don't think so. This is fairly modern, my boy."
The Doctor scrunched his face up. "Really? You think? It's post-war, it's a classic!"
McCormick gave him a fond regard, then said, "The war's only been over for twenty-four years. Not exactly antiquity, if I do say so myself." He indicated his old, weathered face as he said this, and laughed at his self-deprecating remark.
"Well, all right then, I guess I'll have to find a specialty shop," the Doctor mumbled, packing the cumbersome thing back into the case he'd brought. He turned to leave, and just as he reached the shop door, something caught his eye, right on a shelf at face-level. A porcelain angel, probably Limoges, weeping. It did not have its eyes covered like the Weeping Angels at Wester Drumlins, but it was simply crying with painted-on tears. The gold leaf was chipping and the halo was just a bit broken. Frankly, the thing looked ancient.
McCormick, at this point, had gone into the back of the store. "Blimey!" the Doctor heard him half-shout. "Did all of this come from Manchester? We'll never get it all sorted! I've got a business to run – who's going to catalogue all of this?"
A woman's voice said something that sounded wifely, such as "Calm down, Richard..."
The Doctor returned to the counter. "Mr. McCormick?" he called out.
The old man appeared between the gap of two red curtains. "Yes?"
"Hi, it's me again. Sorry to bother you. I couldn't help overhearing that you're having a bit of an inventory crisis."
"Yes, my brother in Manchester fell ill and had to give up his business. No one to run it there, so he had all of his stock sent this way – goes to waste otherwise, winds up in junkyards," McCormick said, sadly.
"I'm sorry about your brother," the Doctor offered. "But what if I told you that I know someone who might like to help you catalogue your inventory?"
"That'd be nice," McCormick answered. "But I'm afraid we can't afford the labour."
"Would you be willing to pay her in trinkets? Say, one small antique per day's work?" the Doctor asked.
"Er, all right, I suppose," the man said, rubbing his chin. "But I'd have to set a price limit or what-have-you."
"Goes without saying," the Doctor said, almost in a single syllable. "Okay, McCormick! I'll be back tomorrow and I'll be bringing help!" He ran out of the shop with flourish, leaving both McCormicks staring after him.
He found Martha at their flat, tidying.
"What are you doing?" he asked. "Are you actually dusting the curtains?"
"I know we hate it and we're moving out, but I'm not going to leave the place a mess," she said. "Why do you have that look on your face?"
The Doctor hadn't been aware that he was making a face. He did feel a sort of maniacal thrill inside, as he sometimes did when the beginnings of an idea were forming. He supposed, perhaps, he might look a bit maniacal on the outside as well.
"Martha, do you know how to find your mother's house?" he asked, suddenly taking her by the shoulders.
"You mean the house she grew up in? No – I know the neighbourhood, roughly, but I don't know which house."
"Could you find the street? I mean, if you saw the name, would you know it?" He released her and began to pace.
"Maybe, why?"
"I think I found a solution to our little Wester Drumlins problem! You finish packing, I'm going to go find Billy!"
