Summertime (1/1)
Title: Summertime
Author: tromana
Rating: T
Characters: Martha, Ten, Gerschwin
Spoilers: Series 3
Summary: Martha catches the Doctor out and he has to reveal a few more home truths about his people.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who. Good thing for you really.
Notes: George Gerschwin is not a character of mine either. He’s a fascinating American composer, who died incredibly young. He also composed the beautiful ‘Summertime’. No offence is intended by this fiction.
Beta'd by
fifth_sister Thanks as always!
Summertime
Martha hummed. She’d loved the song for years. So much so, that it had inspired her to start taking clarinet lessons when she was eight years old. Wandering through the twisting corridors of the TARDIS, it just seemed kind of perfect, until she reached the control room.
“Ah!” The Doctor exclaimed. Martha jumped. “Gerschwin, hell of a chap! Kept trying to steal my scarf. You know, if it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have had a clue what to write about the baby’s parents in that song.”
“I reckon you make half of it up.” Martha’s eyes sparkled as the Doctor positively bounced off the walls with enthusiasm.
“Oh really?”
“Prove that you’re not then.”
“Okay. Let’s take a visit to old Georgie-boy.” He hit the console with the hammer. “Autumn 1935, opening night of Porgy and Bess. When better to hear Summertime?”
The door swung open and the Doctor encouraged Martha outside to 1930’s USA, Boston to be precise. Grabbing Martha’s hand, he dragged her straight towards the Colonial Theatre. A cool wind whipped through Boston Common and the theatre soon provided respite.
“Let me guess, Health and Safety?” Martha muttered as they walked past the security guard the Doctor had just flashed his psychic paper to.
“Oh, probably. Let’s go… this way. They’re probably rehearsing. For,” He bounced on his heels. “Well, strictly speaking this isn’t the first performance. But it is the World Premiere.”
Martha grinned and linked the Doctor’s arm as a very familiar song struck up in the auditorium. The Doctor swung open the doors proudly, very much as if he owned the place and strode up to stressed-looking dark head young man, slumped in one of the seats.
“George! Hello! How are you?”
“Who are you? How did you get in here? And how do you know my name?”
“I’m the Doctor.” He pulled a face, the one where he looked like a kicked puppy. “And this is Martha Jones.”
“No, no you’re not. The last time I saw the Doctor was six months ago. All teeth and curls with a very long scarf. And a pretty blonde girl. R-” Martha winced, expecting a certain name. “-omana, that was her name.”
Martha glanced at the Doctor. Surely there couldn’t be more than one of him? She couldn’t imagine him with an afro, he’d look hilarious. And who was this Romana? She’d heard him mention Rose from time to time, but never anyone else. The Doctor’s face looked as if a shadow had been pulled over it, quite horrified at the mention of this woman.
“We’re going, Martha.”
He’d already left the room before Martha had a chance to notice.
“Oh al- Fine. Just one thing, Mr. Gerschwin. Sir. Did my Doctor, or your Doctor or any Doctor have any hand in writing ‘Summertime’?”
“None whatsoever,” He replied, curious. “Miss. Romana was quite encouraging though. Now if you don’t mind, I’m rather busy.”
With a curt nod, Martha left to catch up with the Doctor. She soon found him, propping himself up outside the theatre, staring up to the clouds that were threatening to rain. She couldn’t help but snort as she approached him; it seemed the weather was representing his mood. A mass of angry cloud that could overflow at any second.
“Care to explain?”
“Not really, no.”
“Oh come on. You with curly hair, that’s got to be a laugh.”
“Hm.”
He avoided looking at her at all. Roughly grabbing his arm, she pulled at it until he stared her in the eyes.
“Romana. Who is she?”
“She was…”
He paused, tongue-tied, trying to find the exact words to describe Romana. There were so many attributes associated to her that it was hard to know where to begin. He didn’t even know how to describe his relationship with her, never mind anything else.
“She was Romana.”
“Yes, I kind of figured that,” Martha replied, slightly irritably. “Hang on, was?”
“Yes, was.”
His face reminded Martha of sitting in the slums of New, New York. She had listened to him describing Gallifrey, positively entranced. And with the words that laced his memories and he decided to share with her, who wouldn’t have been?
“What happened?”
“She died, Martha,” He sighed. “She burned with the rest of the stupid planet.”
“Time Lord?”
“Oh, she was more than just any old Time Lord, Martha Jones. You’d have liked her.”
“A friend?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
Martha frowned. Still, at least she was hearing more about this Romana than she had ever fully heard about Rose. Still, a nice, dead friend (but possibly more, going on his attitude) wasn’t really much to go on. However, she could tell she wasn’t going to get much more than that.
“So. Afro. Explain?” She enquired, “or is there more than one person gallivanting around time and space claiming to be ‘the Doctor’?”
“Sort of.” He sighed. “Martha, when a Time Lord dies, they don’t always actually have to die. There’s a mechanism… a process. Regeneration.”
“Regeneration?”
“Every cell changes… my whole body changes, my personality too.”
“So the Doctor that Gerschwin knew…”
“Tall, rather large nose, curly haired… with a scarf fetish if I recall.”
“Could Romana have…”
“No.”
The lines etched on his face were cold, hardened. It looked as if he was hoping against hope that somewhere, somehow, she was alive and well.
“I’d know,” He added, “up here. I destroyed her, Martha.”
Martha slipped her hand between his lengthy fingers and squeezed gently. There was no way she could ease the guilt he was feeling right now, except for being there. Slowly, his mood appeared to lift again and he broke out in a shy smile.
“What’s all this sadness for, hey?” Martha started at the sudden outburst. “Especially when a perfectly good production of Porgy and Bess is about to start?”
They settled in the back row of theatre, unobtrusive, inconspicuous. As a familiar song broke out, she reached for his hand and clasped it gently. He beamed at her as ‘Summertime’ rang through the auditorium, to a rapt audience.
Somewhere, on a distant planet, a blonde woman in fraying Gallifreyan robes hummed the same song gently, kicking up the dust. She wondered if she’d ever get peace for being the President who guided Gallifrey to its destruction.