Barbara woke. The bed was soft and warm so she lay there for a while,
eyes closed, putting off the moment when - well, putting off everything,
really. It felt self-indulgent, almost sinful - and once that
thought had entered her head she was fighting her upbringing to stay
put. She stuck it out for another ten minutes but the feeling wasn't the
same. It had become rebellion, not relaxation, and that wasn't what she
wanted right now. Almost crossly she levered herself up, threw back the
sheets, swung her legs round, put her feet on the Persian rug.
"Oh well," she said to the room at large, "I suppose I just wasn't born
to be a sybarite." Nor an ascetic, she added silently. Moderation in all
things, that's the key. Although I don't seem capable of even a
moderate amount of sloth; which is something I am definitely going to have to work on.
Ten more minutes and she was washed and dressed, her hair under control;
she had almost finished making the bed. She admired the workmanship as
she tucked the corners in: cedar frame with rosewood inlay, mock-Greek
images of Dionysian figures, grapes, leaves with curling stems. Trite
but attractive. What she loved about it most, though, was the smell -
particularly when she had just put on clean linen.
Barbara smiled; it had taken so long to convince the Doctor that she and
Ian didn't like sleeping on the narrow, sloping monstrosities he and
Susan preferred. Ian had said it brought back nightmares of trying to
doze in deckchairs on the Dover-Calais ferry, one memorable field trip
before she'd moved to Coal Hill. Once he got the idea, though, the
Doctor had taken them deep into the TARDIS and shown them an enormous
room, like a warehouse, chock full of beds. Or so he claimed; some of
them looked more like torture devices, or the remains of huge waste
paper baskets after the bomb hit. Still, there were plenty of more
Earthlike examples. She had enjoyed clambering into a large hammock with
Ian, an undertaking which left both of them shrieking and giggling like
class 4B on a rainy Friday afternoon. And once they'd made their
choices the Doctor - or perhaps the TARDIS - had done something, and the
beds were waiting for them in their rooms when they got back.
Ian had gone for a huge four-poster. She could picture him lying on it
now, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, looking like the
cat who got the cream. Being relaxed suited him - he certainly didn't
seem to have any qualms about taking advantage of the opportunities the
ship offered.
He'd also chosen a continental quilt, saying that he liked the idea of
never having to make a bed again. Something to do with his National
Service days, apparently. Barbara felt differently - for her it was a
useful ritual, a kind of domestic kata to focus her mind before starting
the day.
Which brought her back to the present. What would this day offer,
she wondered? Would she and Ian spend it exploring the ship while the
Doctor fiddled with his magic formula, trying to figure out how to get
them back home? That had happened a few times lately, though always with
the same result. Or would they be arriving in some new place,
invariably at a time of day that upset her internal body clock? Who
could tell? "There's one thing about this life," she muttered, "it's
never short of surprises."
Stepping into the corridor she knocked gently on Ian's door. No answer.
So, he was either still asleep or out and about. Making her way to the
kitchen she dialled a glass of fresh orange juice from the food machine,
but decided to postpone the rest of breakfast - just until she'd seen
what was going on in the console room.
Ian and the Doctor were there; she heard them before she saw them.
"Pay attention, Chesterton! As I was saying, this, here, is the primary compensation circuit, right here, do you see?"
"I've got that, Doctor. What I didn't get was what it's meant to do? What does it compensate for?"
"What is it for? I should have thought that was obvious, even to someone
of your primitive background! I can't be expected to explain everything
to someone too ignorant to figure out a simple control, can I?"
"It's not the control that's the problem," muttered Ian. "Look,
ignorance is just a lack of information! That's what questions are for:
to increase knowledge and understanding. Anyway, there's been precious
little explaining going on, and you agreed it would be a good idea for
me to learn more about the ship's controls now that it's just the three
of us."
Barbara tiptoed away again. Boys and their toys, she thought. It's
funny; those two argue just as much as they ever did, but now they enjoy
it. Most of the time, anyway.
What did she enjoy? That was a tricky question. There were some
obvious answers: actually being present in Earth's history; meeting
strange new people; spending time with Ian and getting to know him, so
much better than she had when they were both teaching. But beyond that?
As a child, it had been an important question; but once she started work
her job had become her focus. She liked teaching, certainly, but that
neglect of her own feelings had left her ill-prepared for this life,
with so much time to herself, cut off from the rest of the universe.
Perhaps that's the answer, she thought. A modicum of introspection and a
little self-indulgence to while away the hours, and loosen up some
emotional muscles long atrophied from lack of use. Now, where to begin?
Next Time:
The conclusion.
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