Chapter Text
Siegfried, Tristan and the Doctor were at the breakfast table when James came back from an early-morning calving.
“I’ve just seen Rolie Partridge out for a walk with Percy and a young woman,” he said. “I always saw him as rather a loner, and can’t really imagine him keeping company with women, especially not young ones.”
“Perhaps a late-blooming romance,” said Siegfried. “On his part, at least. I can imagine a certain sort of young woman being attracted to the artistic type.”
Tristan was intrigued by this, as by any local gossip and goings-on. He was determined to investigate what the certain sort of young woman who took up with Rolie might be like.
Siegfried went on to explain to the Doctor that Rolie was an artist (“rather avant-garde, probably a little too much for a place like Darrowby, really”). The Doctor, now fully recovered, had so quickly become a fixture at Skeldale that Siegfried kept forgetting that he hadn’t always been part of the household. Often, the Doctor’s lively intelligence, honed by years of working out the sociodynamics of alien civilisations, pieced together what was going on before Siegfried had even realised that an explanation was required.
Breakfast over, the Doctor and Tristan went out to the paddock to continue their repairs on the TARDIS. Tristan managed to find a number of pressing reasons – tea-breaks, toilet-breaks, an apparent conviction that he was the only one in the household capable of correctly answering the telephone – to go around the side of the house, from which he had a clear view of Rolie’s cottage. The Doctor continued his maintenance work without commenting on the frequency of these absences. Eventually, Tristan’s persistence was rewarded. Rolie came out of the house, together with his small white terrier Percy and the mysterious woman.
“Hello, Mr. Partridge! Good to see you,” said Tristan, crossing over to greet them.
“Hello, Mr Farnon. This is my niece, Vera. She’s studying at art school down in London, but has come up here to work with me during her summer vacation. Vera, this is Tristan Farnon, a final-year veterinary student who works at his brother’s practice across the road.” Rolie had the tact not to mention for exactly how many years Tristan had been a final-year student.
“Following in your uncle’s footsteps, then,” said Tristan, even more intrigued now that it was clear that the young woman was not romantically involved with the artist. He gave her the most charming smile in his arsenal and looked at her for as long as politeness allowed. Vera bore a certain family resemblance to Rolie, including the round, wire-rimmed glasses (he laughed at himself for the thought that wire-rimmed glasses could run in families), but her hair was darker than Rolie’s and gathered up in a loose bun.
“Yes, despite everyone’s best efforts to discourage me,” she said. “They’ve been trying to convince me that sewing, typing or cooking would be a safer bet, and they may well be right, but I thought that I had to give it a try. I work evenings at a Lyon’s Corner House waiting on and cleaning, and they’ve said that they will take me on full-time if art school doesn’t work out.” She spoke with what had once been a northern accent that had been schooled by years of education into some approximation to received pronunciation.
“What sort of things do you paint?” asked Tristan, wishing for the first time in his life that he knew more about art. “Are you interested in abstract art and that sort of thing?”
“Oh, no,” laughed Vera. “I’m actually very conventional. Landscapes, portraits. I don’t go quite as far as to paint kittens and roses for chocolate-boxes, but I am planning to do a series of views of the Dales.”
“Well, I often have to drive out there on calls, so if you need a lift to some scenic spot, do let me know and I’d be happy to oblige,” said Tristan. It would be interesting to spend time with someone so different from the usual nurses and farmers’ daughters – someone, perhaps, more bohemian. (Tristan wasn’t entirely sure what being 'bohemian’ entailed, but had a vague impression of late nights, loose-fitting clothes and unconventional domestic arrangements.)
“That would be very kind, wouldn’t it, Uncle?” said Vera, giving Tristan the most charming smile in her arsenal.
It was then that the Doctor came around the side of the house at a jog. “Tristan!” he called, “Could you come and help me with something?” He showed absolutely no surprise at finding Tristan in conversation with two people who were clearly the older man and younger woman alluded to at breakfast.
“Is this your twin brother?” asked Vera. Rolie, who knew that Tristan had no twin brother, just stared, forgetting his usually punctilious manners in his shock.
“Umm, no, it’s a little more complicated than that,” said Tristan, wondering where to start with the explanation.
“Hello, how do you do,” said the Doctor, who had now reached the little group. He held out his hand to Vera. “I’m the Doctor.”
***
“But it’s bigger on the inside!”
Vera’s day had been full of surprises. First, she had met a young man who looked as if he had stepped straight out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, with a name to match. She had certainly not envisaged meeting any Tristans in this part of the world; based on her uncle’s description, she had expected it to be the preserve of weatherbeaten Georges and Joes.
Vera’s previous experience with attractive young men had led her to the reluctant conclusion that, for all their charming smiles and good manners, they were ultimately far more interested either in young women who were prettier than she was, or possibly in other attractive young men, than they were in the likes of her. Tristan, however, seemed genuinely eager to get to know her.
She had just begun to adjust to this new and intriguing development when someone who looked like Tristan’s identical twin came dashing around the corner. Dressed in an incongruous combination of a frock-coat, cricket whites and what looked like pyjama bottoms, he nonetheless had an air of moral authority. Understandably enough, Vera had found the explanations about travels in space and time hard to believe. Tristan, with a proprietorial pride that caused the Doctor to grin in amusement, had invited her to spend the afternoon inspecting the TARDIS.
After overcoming her initial surprise at the dimensions and futuristic look of the console room, Vera spent the afternoon sitting on a small wicker stool making sketches of the equipment and of the Doctor and Tristan as they worked. “I’m not sure how I am going to explain these back in London,” she said. “Perhaps I could make a career as an illustrator of fantastical literature, krakens and bathyscaphes and colonies on Mars. And time-travelling doppelgängers! I don’t think they would believe the reality.”
***
“I’m going for a drink with Siegfried and James this evening,” announced the Doctor, as they finished work for the day. “I believe you’re on call, Tristan. Siegfried has said that I can borrow some of your clothes to help me blend in a little more. Then we can chat in peace without having to answer too many questions from – what did you say his name was – Gobber Newhouse?”
Tristan looked aggrieved. “He might have asked me first!”
“Tristan, the TARDIS is in a delicate state at the moment. I’ve been very grateful for your help up to now, but you’re not to touch anything while I’m away,” said the Doctor, sweeping out.
Tristan pouted, clearly disgruntled that the Doctor had demonstrated his lack of trust in his TARDIS-mending abilities in front of Vera. But Vera, realisation dawning, began to laugh.
“Tristan, you silly old thing,” she said. “Don’t you see that the Doctor has engineered things so that you and I can spend the evening together? That’s if you want to invite me, of course. We’ll have to stay at Skeldale, but when it gets dark we can go out into the back garden and you can point out to me the stars that you’ve visited.”
***
Tristan and Vera were curled up together on the Skeldale living-room sofa, drowsy and contented after sharing sherry, a few kisses and the stories of their lives thus far. On the coffee-table lay a series of sketches. Most were of Tristan; after she had managed to convince him to ‘just look normal’ rather than striking mock-heroic attitudes, Vera had succeeded in capturing several likenesses with which she was reasonably pleased. A few of the drawings were Tristan’s sketches of Vera, made under her tutelage. Although he had had no formal artistic education, his veterinary studies had trained him in the skills of observation and Vera was impressed at how well his first attempts had turned out.
“I suppose you’d better go before Siegfried finds you here,” said Tristan, lazily reaching out an arm and gathering the sketches together. “Even though the Doctor expressly told me not to work on the TARDIS, Siegfried might think that the time would have been better spent cramming for my finals.”
“And instead you spent it acting as a model and learning how to draw.”
“Indeed,” said Tristan. “Good old Doctor.”
Vera suddenly became serious. “I really don’t want to interrupt your studies, you know. I hope you haven’t taken the night off from studying on my account.”
Tristan smiled, somewhat bitterly “No, not on your account. I was fonder of lounging on the sofa than studying long before I knew you. Look at me, telling you everything instead of making myself out to be some kind of model student! I think my brother is hoping that the Doctor will be a good influence on me and encourage me to be more industrious.”
“The Doctor really is jolly decent, isn’t he? And very clever, too.”
“Much cleverer than me, and better in every respect. I suspect that my brother already sees him as a superior version of me. Don’t you go falling in love with him instead, will you?”