The Girl in the Pink Coat

The Girl in the Pink Coat

Next week brings December and a new Doctor Who book from the BBC that I’ve got a story in. I was thinking about it being twenty-one years of doing these Doctor Who things – with lots of ups and downs and many memorable moments – some of them great, some of them dreadful...! When you write tie-in fiction you’re in a curious position – both on the fringes and in the very heart of the story. Many of the moments I laugh about and remember are to do with turning up at public events and *not* being someone off the telly…

The most touching moment, though, and the most important for me, was the Saturday in 2007 that Cardiff’s fancy new Waterstones store opened its doors for the first time and we did a signing. I was there with the two Marks (Morris and Michalowski) because we all had books out at the same time. The TARDIS was there, as well as people dressed as Cybermen, and two publicists from BBC Books. There might have even been Daleks.

The shop was busy, the queues were busy and people were swarming up the escalators to come and see the people from Doctor Who. We were wearing those grins that you do when you’re somewhere on behalf of somebody else, and fully prepared to be slightly disappointing… You’re not in attendance as yourself, exactly, but you’re preparing to do your very best.

Halfway through our event there was an old granddad – a very shabby, skinny old man – turning up with his granddaughter. She was about four, in a pink, ragged anorak. The sleeves were filthy and hanging in tatters. The two of them really stood out in that well-dressed crowd and that opulent new shop. The publicist nudged me and pointed them out. The girl was clutching an extremely worn copy of a Doctor Who novel – Jac Rayner’s ‘The Stone Rose.’ It was more like a bundle of worn, mucky paper, all balled up, that she was bringing to our table.

The shop staff and our helpers were clearly keen for people to be buying new books today, but the girl in the pink coat took her place in the queue and doggedly waited, hugging her favourite book to her. When it was her turn Grandad mumbled something about it being the only book she ever looked at. I thought it was probably the only book she owned.

She pushed it carefully onto the table in front of us three writers. Amongst our water bottles, pens, Dr Who memorabilia and shiny new books. She looked at us expectantly and someone – I think one of our publicists – tried to explain to her that this one wasn’t a book written by anyone here at the shop today. Wouldn’t she prefer to get a brand new one signed?

The girl blinked and stared at us. What did she care about any of these new books? How was she going to understand what the woman was saying to her? She had her Doctor Who book already. She already had the book she loved.

I took it and signed it for her, and passed it to the others to sign as well. I tried to chat with her and grin, and she just stared at me, and watched her book carefully, holding her breath until it was safely back in her grasp.

The old grandad was talking to her, standing at her back. He was very gruff and talking quite roughly, shoving her forward, telling her not to be shy, and not to be holding the queue up. She wasn’t quite on the point of tears, but her eyes were huge, staring at us. Then all of a sudden they were both gone, disappearing into the pushy crowd of shoppers and Cybermen. A Waterstones person said something about ‘Getting all sorts coming in here today,’ and about ‘Folk bussing in from the Sticks.’

And that was my moment. After all the fighting and vying for work, the commissions and the continuity and the brain-squishing effort and the imagination and the infighting and the bullying and drafting and editing and chasing and ambition and joyfulness and laughter and togetherness and friends and enemies and monsters… and the feeling of not really being part of it… and then the feeling of suddenly being right in the middle of it… After all that experience of whirling about in the Vortex of Doctor Who… that is still my most vivid moment of all.

Saying to that little girl in the mucky pink anorak: ‘Of course we’ll all sign your book. It’s all of ours and belongs to all of us. We all write the same stuff together and we’re glad you’ve brought your copy today. It’s the most wonderful storybook in the world, and it’ll be our honour to sign it for you.’