Chapter Text
How could one - who was not born here - even think to settle down here? In Scotland, where the wind blows sharp as a knife and the temperature was more moody than some teenager on a Monday morning.
Clara Oswald had no problem with Scotland itself - god beware, she only had a problem with the weather, and some grumpy old neighbours, who never missed a chance to tell her, that she simply was not made for this beautiful country - in other words, “Ya darn Blackpudlian, better go home!”.
She couldn’t remember another word out of their mouth, since she had moved into her flat in Glasgow.
“Why did I come here?” Clara muttered. “Ah, yeah, teaching. Here. Dead in a ditch. Great idea! Brilliant idea, Clara!”
She shook her head while approaching the stairs which led to the main entrance. She was not in the best mood. The bus she initially wanted to take simply didn’t show up, so she had to wait for the next one, and was now late. Let alone cold.
It was the first of October and for some reason it seemed the leaves had turned orange over night and the temperature had dropped at least a hundred degrees. Well, all that was her personal opinion - she was not a meteorologist, so she might was wrong about it.
It didn’t change the fact, that she was late and she was cold. Maybe she should go back to London, where she had teached before.
She was actually quite happy there - well, pleased. To be happy is always a big achievement. She had a nice tiny flat, a great job, no boyfriend and a stepmother who never missed a chance to point out to it. So it came, that she accepted - after two glass of wine - the offer from the Glaswegian University to teach English Literature one year ago. (There was maybe a considerable pay raise involved too.) Within four weeks she had packed all her stuff, had found a new flat in Glasgow and had made her goodbyes to friends and family - her greatest moment of pure rebellion. The only thing that made her hesitate in the end was her dad. And she felt terrible sorry for leaving him behind like this.
“Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart,” he had told her, with one of his warm smiles. “It’s Glasgow, not the end of the world.” For Clara, it literally was the end of the world.
After Blackpool, she had moved to London and after that, she had moved to Glasgow. Nothing in between, no travel to another country. Not even Irland or so. No, it was always this darn island. When she had turned 30, she had taken the book “101 Places to see” from the shelf and had placed it in the darkest box in the basement she could find. Now, she was almost 32 and at least once a month she woke up at night, having a dream about settling down in Glasgow - forever. She never had a worse nightmare in her life.
Maybe it was just one of these days, she thought.
“Clara!” she heard her name behind her, while climbing up the stairs.
“Danny!” Sweet little Danny Pink. He caught up to her, his bag around his shoulders and a paper cup of coffee in his hand.
They both had started working at the same time. His taught math, and she had been glad that she wasn’t the only new face. So they had connected quickly.
“You look unhappy,” he smirked while sipping from his coffee, Clara envied him for. There was no time to walk by her favourite cafe to get some, so she would need to take potluck with the nasty one from the break room.
“It is Monday morning, I am late, I am cold and I have no coffee,” she huffed. “I hate this town!”
“No, you don’t, you are just in a bad mood. I remember you praising it two weeks ago,” he offered her his half drunken coffee with a gesture and she happily took it from him. They both knew what the coffee from the break room would do to her. She would start to eat at least two of her students alive - with no regret.
“That was only because I had a good day,” she smirked.
Sweet Danny Pink. They had dated a few times, but nothing ever came off it. He was a good looking guy, former military man, smart, charming and he was good with kids - her stepmother would say, he was perfect.
After a couple of dates, and their first kiss, they had realized they didn’t “click”. So they stopped dating and started sharing some lunch and some dinners as friends, a half year later he finally found the courage to ask Sissy Cooper from the University administration office out for a date - since then they were together. Clara was happy for him, Sissy was the good heart of the administration office, and had a solution for everything. Adorable Coop, she called her.
“How is adorable Coop? You both had a nice weekend?” she asked while they both headed toward the post room to get their mail.
“We had a nice dinner, at Mancinis. Very good food, not that pricey, you should try it out one day.”
They both approached their mail compartment, two of 150. “Yeah, can’t imagine why I should do that. Hi, I am Clara Oswald, do you have a table for one, please? No, really, I have some self respect, Danny.”
Leaving the room, he sighed, “You know what I mean. No one said you should go alone. I am sure you will find someone. Glasgow has nice man, you know that, don’t you? There are not all like your neighbors.”
“Well, they are like 110, so they don’t count from market economy perspective,” she was not in the mood to talk about the fact, that she seemed unable to find someone capable of being a good boyfriend. She had dated a few men, but it was the same as with Danny, she couldn’t connect with them. “I’ll die old and grey and alone.”
“No, you won’t!” he slapped her softly with his letters. “You’ll find someone.”
“How do you know? It is easy talking for someone in a relationship,” Clara sorted through her mails, but decided she had no time to go through it and shoved them into her bag.
“Because you are intelligent, warm hearted and not that bad looking. Only three of the many aspects that frighten most men. I am sure when you stop searching, the right one will fall in front of your feet,” he gave her a quick hug, a wink and excused himself to his study hall.
“You are a good friend, Danny Pink!” she called after him, he turned around for a moment only to shoot her another grin and a thanking bow.
She emptied the paper cup, and headed toward her classroom. She was not really in the mood, but she had to give a lecture about Jane Eyre, its social criticism and morality.
---
After 90 minutes of lecture, Clara fell exhausted into her stool. Bejant/Bejantine were the worst. They asked way too many questions, not because they were interested, more because they feared to do something wrong. She knew of some professors, whom loved Bejant/Bejantine, because they kissed the ground the Professor walked on. Needy gameplayers, she called them. Personally she liked the Tertian, they had some kind of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, before they became Magistrand. At this point they finally listened to what she said and figured out, not to ask too many questions, which would set up boundaries for the works they had to hand in.*
It took her a minute to find her way back into the present, and she remembered her letters from the post office. Grabbing into her bag, she pulled out the pile and tried to sort them out. Most of them were memos from the principal, news and updates. Some student requests for an appointment and a new print of the Glasgow University Guardian. Clara shoved the papers, except the newspaper back into her bag and unfolded the Guardian. There, a letter, that had slipped between the newspaper, fell down to the ground. She followed its fall with her eyes, and prevented it from sliding under the table by stepping onto it with her boot.
“Gotcha!” leaning down, she noticed the odd handwriting on it. Usually all the letters were printed, even the addresses. Not this one. The front had her name on it, Professor Clara Oswald, English Literature, Art and Literature Department. She turned the small thing around and frowned at its addressor. Randall Brown. Office 7.043. Nothing more.
Clara lowered the letter into her lap and fixated on a chair in the last row of the classroom, trying to remember the name. Nothing. She didn’t know someone with the name. She shrugged it off, she couldn’t know everyone, the University was far too big. Opening and reading it, made her stumble.
‘Please make an appointment for your interview at the 8th, so we can brief you about topics and policy. Sincere regards, R. Brown’
“What?” Clara had no clue what this was about. What interview and who the hell was Randall Brown? She felt she had missed something important.
The call of her name yanked her out of her reflections, “Clara, there you are! I am looking for you ever since,” the woman approached her hastily.
“Nicola!” Clara trilled. Nicola Murray, the head of the Art and Literature department. In her forties, married, two kids, stressed out and always on the hop. She liked Nicola, at least some bits of her, she was very engaged, lovely but she had an aura of chaos around her. After a while Clara had recognized that she was always doing a good pace. She seemed to run from one appointment to the next. Danny suggested it was because of her short political career 10 years ago.
There were times Clara wanted to tell her to come down a little, breath, relax, chill out, like her students sometimes suggested behind her back, before she would die because of a heart attack, but she was her boss, and she had bigger problems as to tell a workaholic to chill out.
“I totally forgot to tell you about your interview,” she kneaded her fingers in distress. She didn’t liked to admit, that it was her fault, probably because it happened quite a lot.
Clara held up the letter, “what interview, Nicola?”
“For the GUST, the Glasgow University Student Television. The Department has to give some overviews over the single subjects. You go for English Literature.”
“Why me? Why not Glenn? He is here since, I don’t know 1983.”
“Are you kidding me? Glenn? Glenn looks like a salesman for suits from the 1980’s, not like an English Literature Professor,” she waved hectically.
Clara made a gesture with her mouth. She had a point, because Glenn not only looked like one, he also talked like one. “So it is me then? Since when do you know?”
Nicola made a grimace, that told her everything, “Forget it. Tell me at least, who is Randall Brown?”
That earned her an expression of disbelief, “You don’t know the Caledonian ghost of news?”
“The what?”
“Randall Brown is the Head of Public Relations. He is responsible for the Glasgow University Guardian and the Glasgow University Student Television, the GUG and the GUST.”
“He is a Professor?” Clara was confused.
“He is a journalist. Joined us three years ago, from London. He is a bit odd, but he is the best,” Nicola was already about to leave her alone again, by turning on her heels.
“Why did you call him a ghost?” Clara grabbed her bag and followed her.
Nicola smiled at her, with a bit too much pity as Clara found. “You told me, you don’t know him, and I assume you haven’t met him yet.”
“No, I can’t tell that I have.”
“See. That’s why we call him a ghost. You’ll see. I have to go now, they want an interview from me too, and I really have to change before that. Bye!” with that Nicola dashed out of the door and vanished in the floors of the University.
Clara smirked. Everytime she saw her, she remembered last year, when she came up with the idea to make a little public relations event in form of a neo expressionistic theme based garden party - in November. In Scotland. She was really convinced about the idea, till someone obviously had told her that the idea was totally bananas. Clara never really had bothered who it was, but had made a mental note to thank the man or the woman, when she, by small chance would ever meet the saviour. Peering down to the letter, she had a hunch.
“Office 7.043 it will be,” she whispered, still quarreling with the lack of good coffee in her veins and made her way up to meet some ghost.