Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC.  This work of fan fiction is offered free of charge, and no copyright infringement is intended.

"Miss Lavinia, can Sarah Jane come out to play?”

"Just call me Sarah!”

Bright-eyed, glossy-haired little Sarah

rushed out of the house past her aunt.

The girl busied herself so earnestly

with her play

that the extra time it took to say “Jane”

was just too bothersome.

Girls recruited her

for doll dress-up games.

She clothed her dolls in poodle skirts, bobby socks, even tiny

cats-eye glasses,

the lovely treasures of an only child

with a doting aunt.

Boys recruited her

for spy games.

She hid in cabinets and behind trees

to overhear secrets,

then ran nimbly back to her friends

to relay the intelligence.

What the neighborhood children never knew

was that sometimes at night Sarah cried.

She wept for the mummy and daddy

that she never knew.

And then Aunt Lavinia would

pull Sarah onto her lap,

and cradle the girl's wet face

 

on her shoulder,

not caring that the tears might stain

her work suits.

In her nicotine-deepened voice,

Lavinia would whisper:

"Be strong, Sarah Jane.”

"Just call me Sarah.”

She was a teenager,

riding high on the waves of the world,

and the prissy sound of “Jane”

just didn't suit her.

She and Andrea shopped for new clothes,

did each other's hair,

and tied up the phone lines,

talking about the boys they fancied.

 

When Andrea died

at the age of thirteen,

the waves Sarah had been riding

crashed over her

and swept her into the sea.

At Andrea's burial

Sarah couldn't stop the tears

that coursed down her red face.

Horrible sobs shook

her colt-like young frame,

and a cold English wind

stung her cheeks.

Sarah would have drowned

in her agony,

were it not for Aunt Lavinia,

who stood by Sarah's side,

never mind the lectures and lab time

 

that she was missing,

and whispered in the girl's ear,

"Be strong, Sarah Jane.”

 

"Call me Sarah,”

she told the Doctor.

Just into her twenties, she was

cavorting in freedom,

thanks to her magical new friend.

With the Doctor,

she danced on the horizon of tomorrow,

whirled in the brightness of nebulae,

and trailed stardust,

like a comet.

But

there were moments when

 

her blood froze.

A dead eye focused on her,

screaming “Exterminate!”

Frankenstein's servant

grabbed her by the hair.

On hands and knees,

she clung to a trembling bridge

above a bottomless chasm.

And yet, she steadied herself.

She knew that back on Earth

the wrinkly-faced voice

of home

was waiting for her,

ever whispering,

"Be strong, Sarah Jane.”

 

But one day,

she found her feet

back on the Earth

to stay.

And Aunt Lavinia

was on her death bed.

As the cancer claimed Lavinia,

she squeezed her niece's hand

and whispered,

"Be strong, Sarah Jane.”

No one was going to hold Sarah

any more.

No one was going to wipe Sarah's tears

any more.

No one was going to wait

 

for Sarah to come home

any more.

No one was going to whisper,

“Be strong, Sarah Jane,”

any more.

Yet Sarah 

needed strength

more than ever.

She needed to hear that

sturdy voice

comforting her.

There was one way

 

to preserve an echo.

From that day on

she began to say,

"Call me Sarah Jane.”

 

 

 

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