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Human Nature - Prelude
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Prelude
Alexander Shuttleworth leaned back in the easy chair and drummed his fingers 
rhythmically on his stomach. 'You may call it cake,' he told his small audience, 
regarding the small saucer with the last few crumbs that sat on his lap, 'but it 
goes beyond cake. Call it Ultrasponge, Victoria Maximus, empress of icing 
sugar.' 
The ladies of Joan Redfern's WI group looked at him and then at each other 
nervously. A few giggled or laughed in a more civilised fashion. Alexander felt 
as if he was addressing a flock of sheep in hatpins. 
'Well, Mr. Shuttleworth,' Joan began, replacing her own plate delicately on the 
table, 'may we move on to the subject of our talk for today, The Archaeology of 
the Bronze Age?' 
One of the ladies leaned over to her friend and whispered in her ear. 'I can't 
imagine what Joan was thinking of, inviting that man into our circle. One might 
as well call upon the Serbs to come and ravage us all.' 
'Oh, I don't know,' the younger woman replied. 'I think he's quite sweet.' 
'That's what all his conquests think, all those young girls ruined in their 
prime. His reputation should preclude him from the Institute.' 
'Reputations!' roared Alexander, causing the two ladies to jump guiltily from 
each other's ear. 'Reputations are made and broken in British archaeology on the 
matter of Bronze Age burials. Are we looking at a matriarchal culture, the kind 
of thing that led to Boadicea's easy assumption of the reins of power... or do 
we deal with chieftains?' He had stood up now, pacing back and forth before the 
curtains of the little front room in the sunshine. 

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'Perhaps the inhabitants of long barrows are not even warriors, but priests... 
Oh, hullo, Wolsey.'
He bent to smooth back the ears of the tabby cat that was rubbing itself against 
his ankles. 
'She's quite infra dig herself, of course.' The older woman had quietly resumed 
her conversation with her fellow. 'Mrs. Redfern, I mean. A thoroughly decent 
sort.' 
'Mrs?' The younger woman was surprised. 
'Widow. Her husband died in the campaign against the Boer.' 
'And do you think that she has plans to civilise the notorious Mr. 
Shuttleworth?' 
'Goodness, no! I hope not, anyhow. If she aims to remarry then I'm sure she must 
pick a more honourable soul. I have heard that she is linked to Mr. Rocastle, 
her employer.' 
'The headmaster? He's a bit stiff.' 
'He doesn't go up in flying machines carrying piglets, if that's what you mean.' 


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The younger woman stared at her, open-mouthed. 'How did you come to hear of 
that? I was ever so slightly squiffy, but -'
'Piglets!' called Shuttleworth, standing to his full height once more. 'Sheep! 
And even horse skulls have been found in burial mounds. Now, were these animals 
owned by the incumbents?' 
Joan was following his gestures politely sipping at her tea, but her thoughts 
were elsewhere. Last night she had had a dream. She taught science at Hulton 
College and she disliked it, all those chemical mixtures, and no idea of 
anything behind it. Like the world was reductable to simple elements. She wasn't 
tremendously fond of the open declamation of ethics and, while watching all 
those young boys destined to be military officers mixing chemicals, she often 
associated the two. Two parts this to one part that, God and country and a 
straight back. No inner knowledge of what made these things elements, no 
questioning of how God's goodness translated into things like patriotism and 
bravery. 
Maybe when she met Arthur again in heaven she'd gain an understanding of the 
greater things, but for now she hated honour and sacrifice, the things that had 
made him die proudly. She knew the other women linked her and Rocastle. He'd 
proposed, the foolish man. That had made her life harder. But she had her dream. 
She'd dreamt of the constellations, of Orion hunting the animals. Amongst them 
was a new one, a group made up of stars from here and there, with two red 
nebulous hearts. A man had stood looking, staring up at Orion with a mixture of 
awe and whimsy on his face; a very British expression. He seemed also to be 
looking down at the spring of 1914. 

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What had made this dream memorable was that the constellation was in some way 
associated - this was the unique thing about dreams, that they could suggest the 
feeling of association without any real connection - with Dr. John Smith, Joan's 
new colleague at the school, the history teacher. Joan had woken up from that 
sleep feeling quite flushed but refreshed, as if something pure and distant had 
come to her like a falling star.
Inspiration, in its most literal sense had filled her, and the notion it brought 
that morning was that, for the first time in several years, she no longer felt 
quite so alone. 
Dr. Smith was small and Scottish, from Aberdeen as a matter of fact, and he had 
a charmingly mobile face. Full of laughter. If it ever stayed still, it would 
present a truly terrible image, a frightening strength. But it never did stop 
moving. That would be bad, if it stopped. Like a tiger. As it stood he was the 
sort of man that one wanted to mother. Very vulnerable, but with that potential 
to be exceedingly strong. A tiger cub, then. 
'Cubs, and their master -' Alexander stopped, turned a fraction, and looked down 
at Joan, puzzled. 'I say, I haven't said anything too risqu, have I?' 
'No...' Joan flinched, broken out of her daydream. 'Why do you say that, Mr. 
Shuttleworth?' 
'Because, my dear, you're blushing.' 
'Oh.' Joan picked up Wolsey, and smoothed his fur, aware of the eyes of the 
other women on her. 'It's a medical condition.' 
Reproduced with the kind permission of Clayton Hickman at Doctor Who Magazine. 


