It was the most perfect English village that the Doctor had ever seen. Rows of cottages, some of them thatched; a lane that was bridal with apple-trees. Every garden was in bloom: tulips, daffodils, wallflowers filled the warm air with their scent. A cat sat curled on a nearby wall. Washing hung on a clothes-line. In the distance, church bells rang a joyful carillon.
Beyond was open countryside; green hills vanishing into the haze. The Doctor, with his acute sense of smell, could identify forty-two different Earth flowers, as well as the scent of candyfloss; of wood smoke from a chimney; of cut grass and warm hay and the good smell of horses. It was wholly idyllic – and yet, there was something missing.
Checking his fob watch, which contained a hidden TARDIS compass, the Doctor frowned at the display. There seemed to be two readings there; almost as if the TARDIS were in two different places at once.
Of course, he might have misread the signs. So much of the TARDIS’s function was intuitive, rather than technical, that even he could not always be sure of what she was trying to convey. But ever since his arrival here, even in the cottage, he had been increasingly struck by the essential wrongness that ran like a dark thread through the fabric of this reality.
A Postman with a satchel passed them on a bicycle. He gave the Doctor a curious look, but called out a cheery greeting. The Queen raised a hand. The man cycled on. The whole of the little scene was perfectly timed, like a clip from a movie.
‘Hurry,’ said the Queen. (Queen of what?) ‘There’s a parade in the Square at noon. The place will be full of people. If you want to find your box…’
The hard part, she knew, would be going unseen. The Queen had special status. People noticed what she did, although it had been a long time since she had lived in the Castle. Now she tried to be ordinary; nevertheless, she was still the Queen. The Doctor, however, was different. Alien to this environment, his every move was an offence. The longer he stayed in the open, the more likely he would attract the wrath of the Gyre.
‘This way,’ she told him, leading the way. ‘And please – leave any talking to me.’
Turning onto a cobbled street, they came to a row of little shops: a grocer’s; a sweetshop; a post office; a bookshop; an ice-cream parlour; a toyshop; a baker’s; a pet shop; a florist’s; a church. All of them were quaintly perfect in their detail. The bookshop had a fine display of illustrated books for children; the sweetshop, a collection of old-fashioned glass jars filled with sweets of all different kinds; the toyshop, a window filled with dolls, bricks, kites, bears and boats.
A Grocer in a striped apron was standing in his doorway. ‘Who’s this? The new Milkman?’ he said, indicating the Doctor.
The Doctor was about to reply, but the Queen interrupted him. ‘Just a visitor,’ she said. ‘No need to ask questions, is there?’
The Grocer flinched. He was a small, nervous man with eyes that moved incessantly. He’d been a friend of Pat’s, she knew; back in the days when people had friends. Nowadays, it was easier not to be too close to anyone. She’d seen three Grocers come and go; for some reason they seemed to be more susceptible than Postmen, Butchers or Milkmen. This one was already showing the unmistakable signs of stress; it wouldn’t be long before it all became too much for him to handle.
‘Lovely day,’ he said at last, his mouth contracting into a smile. ‘Looking forward to the Parade?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied the Queen, before turning back to the Doctor. ‘Not far now,’ she said. ‘Come on. The Square’s at the end of this street.’
It was an oblong square of grass surrounded by flowering cherry trees. All around, there were houses and shops all built from the same mellow stone; a fountain with statues of dragons and swans and a squat little church with a weathervane perched atop its pointed spire.
The Queen was standing in the place where the TARDIS had appeared. But nothing remained to indicate that anything had been there at all, except for a square patch of pavement surrounded by confetti. For a moment she stared at the ground. Then she turned to the Doctor.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she told him. ‘Your Police Box isn’t here.’
She had expected him to show distress, alarm, or at the very least, surprise. But the Doctor just looked thoughtfully at his watch and murmured: ‘Yes. I thought so.’
For a moment she waited for him to react. Some people took it badly. Some took days, even weeks, to accept that this was reality. Some went insane. Some tried to escape. She shivered at that memory.
‘You have to get indoors,’ she said. ‘The Wellness Parade will be starting soon.’ That meant crowds of people; floats; toys; horses; majorettes. People asking questions. ‘Come on!’
It would be quiet in the Church. The Vicar had left a long time ago. Now, only the sound of the bells existed to remind them. She took the Doctor’s arm. ‘Come on. I know a place where we’ll be safe.’
The Doctor said nothing, but followed her. An idea was starting to form in his mind. But to explore it in full, he needed the Queen’s assistance, and she was far too anxious now to give him her cooperation. She led him into the Village church, a cool and pleasant building filled with rows of oaken pews, where light through the stained-glass windows formed a kaleidoscope on the flags. A number of hand-lettered panels hanging on the stone walls said: Happiness is in our Hearts; Trust in Me and All Shall Be Well.
‘What’s a Wellness Parade?’ he asked.
‘We have it every day,’ said the Queen. ‘When you see it, you’ll understand. It’s a way of reminding ourselves how much we have to be happy for.’
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. Forgive me for saying so, my dear, but you don’t seem very happy to me.’
She shrugged. ‘You’re wrong. We’re all happy here. It’s the only way to be.’
He looked at his fob watch again and frowned. ‘What date is it?’
She gave a sigh. ‘It’s Saturday, April 8th,’ she said.
‘And yesterday?’ said the Doctor.
‘Saturday, April 8th.’
‘I see. And how many April 8ths has it been?’
‘More than I want to remember,’ she said.
‘I understand,’ said the Doctor. In fact, he was only beginning to see the picture that was emerging. The ringing of the Cloister Bell; the erratic behaviour of his TARDIS compass; and now, this village, suspended in time – all pointed to a paradox in the Time Vortex. Could this be a ploy by the Daleks to draw him into one of their traps? It would not be without precedent. The Doctor’s most relentless foes had once used their Vortex magnetron to bring about the same effect – although the thought of Daleks here seemed absurdly incongruous. And yet, something had diverted him, against the TARDIS’s programming. The Time Lords, then? He doubted it. This was no Time Scoop procedure, but something far more elegant.
‘My dear young lady,’ he said to the Queen. ‘I think we need to talk. Don’t you?’
She gave him a look of pity. ‘Not now. The Wellness Parade is beginning.’