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The London skyline was ablaze the night that Joan Redfern saw the Doctor for the second and final time.
She was a few streets away from Aldwych tube station when the siren rang, clear and deafening. Reaching for her gas mask, breath caught in her throat, she counted to fifteen silently in her head, waiting for the familiar sound of the air raid wardens and their gas rattles. Nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief, hands shaking slightly. No matter how many times she heard the siren, as the war raged on above the skies of her home city, she would never get used to the dread. The twisted feeling in the pool of her stomach. But the fear kept her moving, and she dashed towards the entrance of the station with a clear urgency in her step.
She was greeted by a stream of civilians filing their way one-by-one through the doors and into the safety of the platform below the surface. The warden at the door, forehead creased with concentration, caught sight of her and smiled. Smiling back warmly, she joined the queue. She was a familiar face around here, so needed to set an example. Pushing and shoving were certainly not going to get them in there any quicker.
She swiftly left the cool, September night-time breeze behind her as she descended the steps. Warmth lay heavy in the air. She could feel beads of sweat prick at her hairline as she delved into her pockets. Pulling out a well-loved white sash, she wrapped it around her green tweed blazer, the bold black lettering glistening under the flickering lights overhead. WVS; the Woman’s Voluntary Service. Everyone had to do their bit, after all.
Arriving at one of the station’s many platforms, she took a sharp left, retracing steps she had taken countless times since war broke out two years ago. She was careful as she wound her way through outcrops of people huddled together on the dusty floor. Some families, others strangers. All looking for a glimpse of comfort as the city rumbled and shook above them. The first bombs must have arrived. For a moment, her heart lurched in her chest as she remembered her family. But then relief flooded her system as she realised that her husband had finished worked over an hour ago and her son would be at home in Cambridge, miles away from the heart of the city and the eye of the storm. All she could do was to hope and pray for their safety. In the meantime, she had business to attend to.
Her hat and blazer were quickly abandoned as she reached her station several yards down the platform. She rolled up her sleeves as a woman, at least thirty years her junior, looked up from a plate of rich tea biscuits.
“Ms Redfern!” Mary exclaimed. The young woman stood up, kind eyes and pretty smile widening. “Thank the heavens you are here! I was starting to worry that I would be alone for the shift.”
“How could you think so lowly of me, Mary.” Joan chuckled as she rounded the table. Stacks of biscuits and crackers stood piled up behind them, refreshments to aid the worried and scared. “Now, what is there left to do?”
"I am nearly done with the biscuits." Mary said as she returned to her work. "But the tea still needs making. I'm not entirely sure if it is going to be enough."
She nodded her head towards the crowded platform. It certainly was busy today; busier than Joan had ever seen before. The tunnel was full of echoing voices, the noise rising and falling like waves. Every time a bomb fell, the crowd would be gripped by a solemn silence, faces downcast as they prayed for their loved ones. People were scared. Terrified that their back-garden shelters, too flimsy and weak against the raw power of a German bomb, would not serve to protect them. Joan had witnessed the increasing numbers of people flocking to the underground, frightened by stories of neighbours and friends losing their lives. Buried under rubble and metal as their bomb shelters caved inwards, sealing them off forever under the dirt. She could not blame them. Too many had lost their lives already. Too many.
"No need to worry, Mary." Joan said, tone no-nonsense but smile encouraging and resolute. "We will make it work."
The next half an hour passed in a blur. One by one, the tins of biscuits disappeared until there were only a few left. The tea was almost gone entirely, and Joan stood back, a hand resting on her hip as the other reached up to wipe the beads of sweat on her brow. In truth she was far too old for all this running around. But that did not stop her. She glanced over at a nearby family, nestled together on a platform bench. From what she could tell, it must have been their first time in a public shelter. Their wide eyes and silent frowns, the children sat on their parent’s laps, told her everything she needed to know. So, gathering a few biscuits in one hand and the final mug of tea in the other, she made her way over. She stopped in front of the youngest; a small girl with wispy brunette curls and brown doe-eyes. The mother smiled down at her, nodding her head gently, and so Joan leant forward, holding out a rich tea like a small offering.
“Hello there, little one.” She smiled softly. The little girl’s grasp on her mother’s trench coat only grew tighter, so Joan placed the mug carefully on the ground, using her free hand to snap the biscuit in two. She held out the broken biscuit again. “Don’t tell anyone, but this is the last biscuit. And we all know that only those on their best behaviour can get the last biscuit!”
At this, the girl’s eyes widened further, and she shuffled slightly so that she could take a better look. Joan smiled playfully, raising an eyebrow. “How about you have this bit here, and I’ll give the other half to your brother.”
She did not speak, but the glimmer in the girl’s eyes was all the confirmation Joan needed. She could not help but chuckle warmly as the two siblings took the biscuits without a moment to spare, standing up and bowing her head graciously at their parent’s gratitude. Yes, her work here in the shelters may not compare to the brave soldiers fighting on the frontlines, but it was every bit as important in its own special way. The army may have been bringing victory to the country, but she and her fellow volunteers, they were bringing hope. One biscuit and cup of tea at a time.
In no time, the final biscuits had gone and the tea run dry, and it was time to tidy away their mess before the second siren sounded out. She was desperate to ascend those steps away from the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Joan piled empty tins into larger boxes and baskets for safe carrying, limbs tired and head foggy, but happy nonetheless. Dreaming of her warm bed and soft pillow, she felt her heart skip a beat as she sensed a lull in the constant thunder above ground. Just one trip to return the boxes to the WVS office and she would be on her way home.
That was, until she heard a small, almost hesitant cough from in front of her, and she glanced upwards to see the strangest-looking man she had laid her eyes upon that evening.
The first thing she noticed about the man was how young he was, and yet how strangely he was dressed. He could not be more than thirty years old, and yet his attire was the most bizarre amalgamation of styles, it was almost as if he had walked into a clothes store eyes closed and chosen random pieces from the shelves. Joan might have been getting old, but even she could tell that it was not just a quirk or a modern fashion fad. Although, she did have to admit the bowtie suited him in an odd, accidental way.
At that moment, her learned etiquette kicked in, and she gathered her senses and smiled at the poor young man. After all, it was rude to gawk. “Good evening, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”.
For a fleeting moment, she was not sure if the man was going to speak at all. He stared at her with eyes wide and mouth opening and closing like a fish, and Joan wondered if he actually meant to catch her attention in the first place.
“Is there something wrong?” She asked, laughing a little. “You look like you have just seen a ghost.”
The man shook his head, and his- what Joan could only describe as- mop of dark hair took on a mind of its own. His hands, which had been clasped behind his back, pulled down suddenly on the lapels of his brown blazer and then reached up to level his bowtie.
“No, nothing’s wrong.” He finally mustered the courage to say. “Just wondering if…there were any biscuits left?”
“They are all gone, I’m afraid.” She smiled kindly, but inside she was itching to return home. “It’s been a busy evening.”
Turning around quite suddenly, the man surveyed the packed platform behind him. He returned her face her again, a glint of something new in his eyes. Recognition; as if he had only just realised where he was. Joan could almost picture the light bulb flashing above his head.
“Yes, yes…” he muttered absentmindedly, and Joan continued to stare at him with an amused smile.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
They both shared a laugh, falling silent after a few moments.
“You have family up there?” She asked him, casting her eyes upwards to the dusty tunnel ceiling. She returned her gaze to him and he shook his head, not offering anything else. “…Friends?”
At this, he smiled slightly. “Yeah, here and there. You?”
“My husband is here with me in London, but my son lives outside the city.”
She watched as he ducked his head, lips pulled into a smile. Not a full, happy smile, no. But it was gone before Joan could speculate further.
“Your son, he’s not been drafted then?”
Of course. It was so easy to forget sometimes. “Chronic limp, ever since he had Polio as a child. They said he was not fit for service, but he helps out on the land. With the harvests and fixing the machinery. I can tell it affects him, not being able to serve his country out there. But I thank the heavens every day; not everyone is so lucky.”
She paused suddenly, eyebrows furrowed and a confused smile appearing on her lips. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. My apologies.”
“No need. I just have one of those faces.”
Silence persisted, and Joan took advantage of those stolen seconds to observe him. He was right. There was something about his face that was so familiar to her, although she was quite sure she had never met him before in her life. She memorised the lines of his face. The angles of his jaw and curved bow of his lips. No, she was certain he was a stranger to her, and yet something stirred in the depths of her memory. It was hazy and distant, but still there. Her gaze locked on to his, and for the briefest of moments their eyes met. It struck her suddenly that despite his apparent youth, those eyes, as green as bottled glass, were old and tired.
The man coughed, and they tore their eyes away from each other. Joan gathered her nerves, a little shaken, putting on a hesitant smile as she picked up an empty tin, turning away from him to place it into the box behind her. “I meant to ask after your name…”
He scoffed slightly, batting a hand. “John, but that’s boring.” He reached out a hand, leaning against the flimsy wooden table, before standing up straight a few moments later. He seemed incapable of staying still. “What about you Joan?”
She looked at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What about me?”
“Well…” he began, drawing the vowel out dramatically as he tossed his head to the side. “Not everyone with qualifications as impressive as yours feels inclined to become a voluntary worker. Shouldn’t you be working out there; nursing on the front lines?”
"How could you possibly know that?" Joan looked at him incredulously, but dismissed his knowledge as a coincidence. She was rather well-known in the area, after all. She was admittedly also a little offended. Too common was it for people to look down so snobbishly at her work, as insignificant to the war effort it may have been. “I’m afraid I’m too old to be a nurse. Besides, I have seen the soldiers forcibly returned from the war. Their scars, visible and invisible. I fear that my help would mean very little.”
“But a volunteer, surely you could be doing more?”
This time, Joan could not help but scoff. He sounded just like her friends at the Women’s Institute; the constant chatter about their sons off at war, clucking like self-important, preening hens. The judgemental looks as she mentioned her son’s effort out in the fields. She was not one to lose control of her emotions, but even now, anger started to boil at the pit of her stomach. Who did this man think he was?
“I’ll have you know, young man.” She started. “What I do may seem insignificant to you, but these small gestures- a warm cup of tea and a biscuit- in the grand scheme of things, yes, they are not going to defeat our enemies, but what they do is bring hope. You see those people down there? The children crying. That’s why I’m here. Because what sort of a person can watch a child cry and just do nothing?”
She stopped. The man- John- stood in front of her, arms crossed. Finally still. She found herself a little out of breath but did not regret it. Her chest felt lighter; perhaps, saying all that out loud was what she had needed. Her eyes, narrowed and judgemental, found the figure in front of her again. But, much to her surprise, she was not greeted by anger or guilt. No, she was greeted by a smile. An old, old smile; like how someone would greet a long-lost friend. Recognition of what he had just done flooded her system and the exasperation within her stiff posture ebbed away.
"You..." She started, but trailed off. She was admittedly speechless. The man's smile only widened at this, and he gazed at her intensely.
"Never doubt yourself, Joan. You are simply brilliant, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
The sound of her name startled her for a moment, and she suddenly realised that he had used it before. Not knowing quite how to respond, she remained silent, watching as the expression on the stranger's face slowly morphed from one of kindness into one of pride.
“I’m glad.”
Joan's eyes narrowed and her lips parted. “Pardon?”
The smile this time seemed so sad. “Your life…it seems like you were happy in the end. I’m glad.”
The stranger waited, as still as a statue on a church spire. His eyes burned holes in her; in an instant taking on a quality so alien and distant that she had not recognised before, but now brought memories flooding back to her as swiftly as flicking a switch. Or perhaps, opening a small, silver pocket watch.
Suddenly, the man turned to leave. The crowd, now up on their feet and waiting for the all-clear, parted for him like the red sea, and he began to disappear into the ocean of trench coats and winter hats. At once, Joan felt a deep desperation tug at her limbs, and she dashed around the table, stopping herself before she chased after him across the dusty concrete floor.
“Wait…” She called out, the pieces finally falling into place. "Back there, you used my name. How did you know it?"
It was useless asking, really. Deep down, she already knew the answer, however impossible it may have seemed. She did not know how it could be him. How he could be there with a different face. But it was him and he was.
He stopped, turning to look back at her over one shoulder. She could not go after him. If she did, she did not know what might happen. But she had had years to ponder that moment in the autumn of 1913; wonder what she could have said to him. And maybe time had made her kind.
“I may not have forgiven you for taking him away from me.” She said, now conscious of the lines on her face and the flashes of grey in her once light-brown hair. “But in my anger, all those years ago, I forgot to say thank you.”
If he was surprised at her words, he did not show it. He just stood as people passed by him. Unnoticed. The lonely god. She smiled deeply, eyes round with gratitude. “Thank you for those precious few months. I have never forgotten them, and I don’t think I ever will.”
The Doctor returned her smile, and in it, she saw a tenderness she had not seen since she had said goodbye to John Smith a lifetime ago in a small, dilapidated cottage in the fields of Norfolk. His face was so young; a different face, but him all the same. She was so old now.
A few moments passed between them, and then he began to walk away. Joan watched as he followed the stream of people down the platform and then up the stairs. He did not look back even once before vanishing altogether so quickly, it was almost as if he was never there at all.