Space, Time and Tea (Part 1)
In the dark, a figure made its way across the damp lawn. A silhouette against the fog, stumbling over ditches and tufts of grass, as it approached the old stone cottage. The gate groaned in the chill air as it was pushed back on its hinges against the picket fence. A cold, grey fist reached out to rap on the front door.
************
"The thing is, people think about time and space as being two different things," Dave said. "That's science fiction. You just can't have one without the other."
He continued pouring cabernet sauvignon until the surface tension was visibly straining against the rim of the glass. The room dissolved into wet laughter as the assembled marketing guru, temp and Patrick The Sceptic witnessed Dave's demonstration of his timespace theory via red wine, all over the coffee table and ultimately, through his nose.
He mopped his face with a paper towel, threw it into the open fire to a satisfying hiss of flames and alcohol, and squared his shoulders to his reclining audience.
"It's like, time," he said, holding out his left hand with a flourish, jazz style "and space," as he flicked out the right, "are two different things but not separate. Time without space, would just be a dark room with no doors or windows, full of eternities within seconds. But space without time," he waggled his fingers. "Space without time is what you've really got to worry about, because when matter exists in space without time to govern it, the natural order is has no finite limit. The moon will never rise, the sun will never set. The world will be a film shot in a quarry, a cardboard set full of artificial meadows and fading papier mache trees. The dead will not be dead. And then.....BAH!" Dave lunged with the right jazz hand at Katrina, who leapt off the sofa and sent the startled cat scurrying out of the room.
************
Outside, beyond the waves of laughter escaping through the window panes and up the chimney stack, something shadowy was gathering around the edges of the field the cottage was built in. From within copses and under trees, humanoid shapes gathered the darkness around them like a blanket and, using solid darkness for form, gradually emerged still filling in details of fingers, mouths and hair. And eyes. So many eyes. All converging on the cottage, as the plume of grey smoke rose unwitnessed from the chimney, dissipating into the fog like a rumour.
***********
Reparations had been made to the cat by the time the last bottle was opened. She had resumed her rightful place, just beyond the brightest circle of heat from the fireplace, curled tight in on herself at first and gradually lengthening, as the heat of flames and sleep unlocked the defensive clench of her muscles.
"If time is the fingers on my left hand and space is the fingers on my right hand and I hold them out like this," Dave held forth. "They're separate sure, but there's no strength, there's nothing to hold them together."
"Yeah, except for the wanker they're all attached to!" yelled Patrick to a chorus of laughter and jeers.
"Well, if only you'd return my calls, Pat," Dave ran his hand through Patrick's hair, grinning at the hooting of the crew and Patrick's faux horror.
The cat glanced up, rolled her eyes and went back to sleep.
************
There was cast of thousands gathering outside as the cat ignored enforced heterosexuality and purred peacefully. Silently, the shadows stood at the edge of the field in their shirts and longcoats, hats, scarves and gloves, wisps of fog curling languidly around their ankles.
************
"So, time, space, space, time," Dave said shaking his hands. "But interwoven, like a zipper," he fanned his fingers out and linked them, "time and space are locked together. They're bound and they're strong. There's no breaking them. Except, every now and then one of the teeth slip out, then the whole zipper falls apart."
"Bermuda triangle," nodded Sally.
"Aliens," entoned James.
"Aliens? Aliens? Mr Spock?!" Patrick was incredulous. "You lot are so gullible." He gestured at Dave, "I can't believe you're listening to this guy. If he ever met an alien he'd wet himself and then tweet about it."
Suddenly, booming over the sputters of laughter, there was a knock at the door. Everyone, except the cat, stiffened.
"What time is it? Who'd be out here in the middle of the night?" whispered Katrina.
Wide eyes searched each other out across the room. No-one, except the cat, exhaled. The fire popped violently in the stillness and all five were immediately on their feet.
"It could be some hiker who got lost, or something," Dave said. "We can't just ignore a knock at the door in the middle of the night."
************
Dave steeled himself and with as much purpose as his fear would permit, opened the door. Outside was what looked like a man in his mid-forties. His head was tilted down and a wide brimmed hat left his face into deep shadow, brown curls wiring out from under the brim. As light leaked out of the warm enclave of the cottage, the man steadied himself against the door jam and drunkenly angled his head up to peer at Dave, from under a bushy brow, with one deep-set, brown eye. As the man leaned forward to speak, Dave felt the damp ends of a woollen scarf, heavy enough to have been made centuries ago, slither along the cuffs of his jeans.
"I've come for Gallifrey," the man said and promptly collapsed on the door step.
Watching from the hall, the cat gave a chirrip, turned tail and ran off to make herself scarce behind the stove.
************
(To be continued.)
************
"The thing is, people think about time and space as being two different things," Dave said. "That's science fiction. You just can't have one without the other."
He continued pouring cabernet sauvignon until the surface tension was visibly straining against the rim of the glass. The room dissolved into wet laughter as the assembled marketing guru, temp and Patrick The Sceptic witnessed Dave's demonstration of his timespace theory via red wine, all over the coffee table and ultimately, through his nose.
He mopped his face with a paper towel, threw it into the open fire to a satisfying hiss of flames and alcohol, and squared his shoulders to his reclining audience.
"It's like, time," he said, holding out his left hand with a flourish, jazz style "and space," as he flicked out the right, "are two different things but not separate. Time without space, would just be a dark room with no doors or windows, full of eternities within seconds. But space without time," he waggled his fingers. "Space without time is what you've really got to worry about, because when matter exists in space without time to govern it, the natural order is has no finite limit. The moon will never rise, the sun will never set. The world will be a film shot in a quarry, a cardboard set full of artificial meadows and fading papier mache trees. The dead will not be dead. And then.....BAH!" Dave lunged with the right jazz hand at Katrina, who leapt off the sofa and sent the startled cat scurrying out of the room.
************
Outside, beyond the waves of laughter escaping through the window panes and up the chimney stack, something shadowy was gathering around the edges of the field the cottage was built in. From within copses and under trees, humanoid shapes gathered the darkness around them like a blanket and, using solid darkness for form, gradually emerged still filling in details of fingers, mouths and hair. And eyes. So many eyes. All converging on the cottage, as the plume of grey smoke rose unwitnessed from the chimney, dissipating into the fog like a rumour.
***********
Reparations had been made to the cat by the time the last bottle was opened. She had resumed her rightful place, just beyond the brightest circle of heat from the fireplace, curled tight in on herself at first and gradually lengthening, as the heat of flames and sleep unlocked the defensive clench of her muscles.
"If time is the fingers on my left hand and space is the fingers on my right hand and I hold them out like this," Dave held forth. "They're separate sure, but there's no strength, there's nothing to hold them together."
"Yeah, except for the wanker they're all attached to!" yelled Patrick to a chorus of laughter and jeers.
"Well, if only you'd return my calls, Pat," Dave ran his hand through Patrick's hair, grinning at the hooting of the crew and Patrick's faux horror.
The cat glanced up, rolled her eyes and went back to sleep.
************
There was cast of thousands gathering outside as the cat ignored enforced heterosexuality and purred peacefully. Silently, the shadows stood at the edge of the field in their shirts and longcoats, hats, scarves and gloves, wisps of fog curling languidly around their ankles.
************
"So, time, space, space, time," Dave said shaking his hands. "But interwoven, like a zipper," he fanned his fingers out and linked them, "time and space are locked together. They're bound and they're strong. There's no breaking them. Except, every now and then one of the teeth slip out, then the whole zipper falls apart."
"Bermuda triangle," nodded Sally.
"Aliens," entoned James.
"Aliens? Aliens? Mr Spock?!" Patrick was incredulous. "You lot are so gullible." He gestured at Dave, "I can't believe you're listening to this guy. If he ever met an alien he'd wet himself and then tweet about it."
Suddenly, booming over the sputters of laughter, there was a knock at the door. Everyone, except the cat, stiffened.
"What time is it? Who'd be out here in the middle of the night?" whispered Katrina.
Wide eyes searched each other out across the room. No-one, except the cat, exhaled. The fire popped violently in the stillness and all five were immediately on their feet.
"It could be some hiker who got lost, or something," Dave said. "We can't just ignore a knock at the door in the middle of the night."
************
Dave steeled himself and with as much purpose as his fear would permit, opened the door. Outside was what looked like a man in his mid-forties. His head was tilted down and a wide brimmed hat left his face into deep shadow, brown curls wiring out from under the brim. As light leaked out of the warm enclave of the cottage, the man steadied himself against the door jam and drunkenly angled his head up to peer at Dave, from under a bushy brow, with one deep-set, brown eye. As the man leaned forward to speak, Dave felt the damp ends of a woollen scarf, heavy enough to have been made centuries ago, slither along the cuffs of his jeans.
"I've come for Gallifrey," the man said and promptly collapsed on the door step.
Watching from the hall, the cat gave a chirrip, turned tail and ran off to make herself scarce behind the stove.
************
(To be continued.)