a Fourth Doctor story. by Clive May. Email: clive@cj4386.demon.co.uk ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The copy right of all things pertaining to the concept and characters of Dr Who is the property of the BBC. This story is a work of fan fiction; it has been written simply for the pleasure it gave me in writing it; and no money has or will change hands with respect to the story. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The portly village Bobby paused to regard Tegan seated at the interview table in the front room of his little police house, which doubled as the interview suite. Tegan was in a right state. The sheer, black evening gown was ripped in three places. A livid stinging nettle rash covered her bare arms. Her legs were plastered with mud; the stockings were torn all to hell; and she'd lost one of her dancing slippers. There hung about her a strong odour which might be politely termed "farmyard". Her hair, which had obviously been expensively styled, was a total ruin. The term: "dragged through a hedge backwards" sprang readily to mind. "I've just got off the telephone to the cottage hospital," the Constable said; "and Dr Mallard says that they'll be keeping your friend in for several days. Are you certain, Miss..." he glanced at his notebook, "Miss Jovanka, that you didn't use a weapon of some kind?" He eyed a cricket bat lying across a faded chintz sofa and added - "the cricket bat perhaps?" "No," said Tegan bluntly. She flexed her fingers to relieve the pain in her skinned knuckles. "I didn't think of the bat until afterwards." Taken aback somewhat by Tegan's surly response, the genial bobby put on his professional policeman persona; it was not a good fit. "Right then, Miss," he began. He drew out the chair opposite the wreckage of Tegan Jovanka, and eased his uniformed bulk into it. He took up a pencil, drew a sheet of paper to himself and said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a statement from you, Miss... So, in your own words, tell me exactly what happened?" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "Excuse me," Tegan began with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances; "but can you tell me how to get to Much Piddling In The Bog?" The ancient, be-smocked shepherd on the hill top looked her up and down through his unruly thicket of facial hair. He scratched at his grizzled beard with a blunt finger before taking off his battered hat and staring at it hopefully, as though directions might have been sewn into the hat-band. "Hmmmmm? Much Piddling In The Bog, ye say?" he mused. He tapped his chin thoughtfully with his shepherd's crook before saying, "don't rightly recall I've ever heared of that there place... Ye'll not be meaning Much Wandering In The Fog by any chance, would ye now Missy?" "No," said Tegan shaking her head forcibly. The remains of her fancy hair-do collapsed further into ruin. She was gripped by a sinking feeling that her troubles, her many, many troubles, in struggling to this bloody hill top were going to be in vain. "Much Squelching In The Marsh?" the shepherd essayed hopefully. Tegan sighed. "No?" the shepherd concurred sadly. Then an idea struck him and he asked, "well then, there be a Much Diddling In The Dark goes on over yonder, towards Scroggetts Bottom," he offered, pointing his battered hat at some indeterminate spot in the wilderness of countryside stretching away to the horizon. "Ye'd not be meaning that there village now would ye by any chance?" "No," said Tegan. "Much Piddling In The Bog. There's a cricketing festival and - EEEEEEEEKKKKK!" A liver and white Old English Sheep dog which, after much speculative snuffling at Tegan's ankle, had cocked a hairy leg and proceeded to "mark territory" in the time-honoured doggie fashion. Tegan jumped back, aiming a reflexive kick at the creature. The elderly shepherd watched all this without comment. At length, he shook his head emphatically and said, "nope. Can't rightly say I've ever heared of such a place hereabouts. Sorry Missy, but I can't help ye none." He replaced his battered hat with an air of finality. Tegan thanked him with as much grace as she could muster. She shot the dog a murderous glance. The dog was smirking at her from behind its fringe of hair. It was laughing at her; the great hairy monster was actually bloody well laughing at her. Choking on a desire to kick the cur into the next county, Tegan turned and began the weary trudge back to the road. When she'd gone a dozen yards, the ancient shepherd called after her. "Hey there, Missy?" Tegan kept on walking. She glanced back over her shoulder, but with no real hopes of anything. "Yes," she snapped. "Have a care there, Missy. Watch out for them there sheep's diddlies... Oh dear! Well never mind, Missy. I'm sure them'll come off with a little warm water." Tegan very much doubted that. She scraped her foot somewhat ineffectually through the damp grass before setting off down the hill. At the bottom, she slipped through the barbed wire, collecting another rip in her expensive gown, slogged across the ploughed field, clambered over the fence and, of course, fell into the ditch before clambering out onto the road. She was not a happy bunny. The Fourth Doctor, his great coat thrown over a set of cricketing whites, was lounging upon the bonnet of the red sports car parked by the road side. He was watching her performance with a critical eye. "He doesn't know where Much Piddling In The Bog is," she told him in a dangerous voice. "He's never heard of the bloody place. So what do we do now?" The Doctor pushed himself upright. He flourished the cricket bat he had been holding, peered all around as though observing the placement of the fielders and took guard before the MG's grill. He stared forward with deep concentration before executing an elegant cover drive. Straightening, he peered into the distance as the imaginary cricket ball sped to the boundary. He shouldered the bat and basked in the adulation of the imaginary spectators. After some moments of this, he turned and grinned at Tegan, who was waiting with as much patience as she could muster. "Well?" she demanded. The Doctor pointed with the bat at the hill top. "You might want to pop across and see what's got him so excited," he suggested. The old shepherd was waving frantically at them with his battered hat, and pointing to a lanky youth standing at his side. "No!" Tegan almost shouted. "N O! I'm not bloody well going all the way up that bloody hill again." Alas for Tegan, her determination was a pitiful thing when pitted against the Doctor's incredibly persuasive charm... Besides, if he was to make a good showing for UNIT at the cricketing festival, his cricketing whites must remain immaculate... So, of course, she went grumbling and complaining all the while. Of course, she fell into the bloody ditch again. "Be careful, Tegan," the Doctor called out somewhat un-helpfully. Tegan gritted her teeth, got tangled in the fence, lost a shoe in the muddy field, and ripped her expensive gown in the barbed wire. She even contrived to put her stockinged foot in some more of the abundant sheep's diddlies as she slogged up the hill; but by this time, she was beyond caring. "Ye wuz askin' about Much Piddling In The Bog," the ancient shepherd said as she stumbled up to the pair. "Yes," said Tegan looking hopefully towards the lanky youth, who leered at her. "Well now, Missy, thisy here's my brother, Jarge's eldest, Jethro. He's a foin lad, damn foin lad, smartest fella ye'll find in miles, but d'ye know what, Missy?..." "No?" said Tegan. She had a dreadful sinking feeling about this. "Well, Jethro here, he aint never heared of Much Piddling In The Bog neither." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The end