Lost in a Good Book

  'Welcome to Norland Park, Miss Next; you are fortunate indeed to have Miss Havisham as your teacher – she does not often take pupils. But tell me, as I am not so very conversant with contemporary fiction – what book are you from?'

  'I'm not from a book, Mrs Dashwood.'

  Mrs Dashwood looked startled for a moment, then smiled even more politely, took my arm in hers, muttered a pleasantry to Miss Havisham about 'getting acquainted', and steered me off towards the tea table.

  'How do you find Norland, Miss Next?'

  'Very lovely, Mrs Dashwood.'

  'Can I offer you a Crumbobbilous cutlet?' she asked in a more agitated manner, handing me a side plate and napkin and indicating the food.

  'Or some tea?'

  'No thank you.'

  'I'll come straight to the point, Miss Next.'

  'You seem most anxious to do so.'

  She glanced furtively to left and right and lowered her voice.

  'Does everyone out there think my husband and I are so very cruel, cutting the girls and their mother out of Henry Dashwood's bequest?'

  She looked at me so very intensely that I wanted to smile.

  'Well—' I began.

  'Oh, I knew it!' gasped Mrs Dashwood with a dramatic flourish. 'I told John that we should reconsider – I expect out there we are burnt in effigy, reviled for our actions, damned for all time?'

  'Not at all,' I said, attempting to console her. 'Narratively speaking, without your actions there wouldn't be much of a story.'

  Mrs Dashwood took a handkerchief from her cuff and dried her eyes, which, to my mind, had not even the smallest tear in them.

  'You are so right, Miss Next. Thank you for your kind words. But if you hear anyone speaking ill of me please tell them that it was my husband's decision – I tried to stop him, believe me!'

  'Of course,' I said, reassuring her. I made my excuses and left to find Miss Havisham.

  'We call it Minor Character Syndrome,' explained Miss Havisham after I rejoined her. 'Quite common when an essentially minor character has a large consequential part. She and her husband have allowed us the use of this room ever since the trouble with Confusion and Conviviality. In return we make all Jane Austen books subject to our special protection; we don't want anything like that to happen again. There is a satellite office in the basement of Elsinore Castle run by Mr Falstaff – that's him over there.'

  She pointed to an overweight man with a florid face who was enjoying a joke with a younger agent dressed in more contemporary clothes.

  'Who is he talking to?'

  'Vernham Deane; romantic lead in one of Daphne Farquitt's novels. Mr Deane is a stalwart member of Jurisfiction so we don't hold it against him—'

  'Where is Havisham?' bellowed a voice like thunder. The doors burst open and a very dishevelled Red Queen hopped in. The whole room fell silent. All, that is, except Miss Havisham, who said in an unnecessarily provocative tone:

  'Bargain-hunting just doesn't suit some people, now does it?'

  The assembled Jurisfiction operatives, realising that all they were witnessing was another round in a long and very personal battle, carried on talking.

  The Red Queen had a large and painful-looking black eye and two of her fingers were in a splint. The sales at Booktastic had not been kind to her.

  'What's on your mind, Your Majesty?' asked Havisham in an even tone.

  'Meddle in my affairs again,' growled the Red Queen, 'and I won't be responsible for my actions!'

  'Don't you think you're taking this a little too seriously, Your Majesty?' said Havisham, always maintaining due regal respect. 'It was only a set of Farquitts, after all!'

  'A boxed set!' replied the Red Queen coldly. 'You spitefully took the gift I planned to give to my own dear beloved husband. And do you know why?'

  Miss Havisham pursed her lips and was silent.

  'Because you can't bear it that I'm happily married!'

  'Rubbish!' returned Miss Havisham angrily. 'We beat you fair and square!'

  'Ladies and, er … ladies and majesties, please!' I said in a conciliatory tone. 'Do we have to argue here at Norland Park?'

  'Ah, yes!' said the Red Queen 'Do you know why we use Sense and Sensibility? Why Miss Havisham insisted on it, in fact?'

  'Don't believe this,' murmured Miss Havisham, 'it's all poppycock. Her Majesty is a verb short of a sentence.'

  'I'll tell you why,' went on the Red Queen angrily. 'Because in Sense and Sensibility there are no strong father or husband figures!'

  Miss Havisham was silent.

  'Face the facts, Estella. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steels, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon nor Willoughby have a father to guide them! Aren't you taking your hatred of men just a little too far?'

  'Deluded,' replied Havisham, then added after a short pause: 'Well then, Your Majesty, since we are in a questioning vein, just what is it, exactly, that you rule over?'

  The Red Queen turned scarlet – which was tricky as she was quite red to begin with – and pulled a small duelling pistol from her pocket. Havisham was quick and also drew her weapon, and there they stood, quivering with rage, guns pointing at each other. Fortunately the sound of a bell tingling caught their attention and they both lowered their weapons.

  'The Bellman!' hissed Miss Havisham as she took my arm and moved towards where a man dressed as a town crier stood on a low dais. 'Show time!'

  The small group of people gathered around the crier, the Red Queen and Miss Havisham side by side, their argument seemingly forgotten.

  The Bellman put down his bell and consulted a list of notes.

  'Is everyone here? Where's the cat?'

  'I'm over here,' purred the cat, sitting precariously atop one of the gold-framed mirrors.

  'Good. Okay, anyone missing?'

  'Shelley's gone boating,' said a voice at the back. 'He'll be back in an hour if the weather holds.'

  'Okay,' continued the Bellman. 'Jurisfiction meeting number 40,311 is now in session.'

  He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted a clipboard.

  'Item one is bad news, I'm afraid.'

  There was a respectful hush. He paused for a moment and picked his words carefully.

  'I think we will all have to come to the conclusion that David and Catnona aren't coming back. It's been eighteen sessions now and we have to assume that they've been … boojummed.'

  There was a reflective pause.

  'We remember David and Catnona Balfour as friends, colleagues, worthy members of our calling, protagonists in Kidnapped and Catnona, and for all the booksploring they did – especially finding a way into Barchester, for which we will always be grateful. I ask for a minute's silence. To the Balfours!'

  'The Balfours!' we all repeated. Then, heads bowed, we stood in silence. After a minute ticked by, the Bellman spoke again.

  'Now, I don't want to sound disrespectful but what we learn from this is that you must always sign the outings book so we know where you are – particularly if you are exploring new routes. Don't forget the ISBN numbers either – they weren't introduced just for cataloguing, now, were they? Mr Bradshaw's maps might have a traditionalist's charm about them—'

  'Who's Bradshaw?' I asked.

  'Commander Bradshaw,' explained Havisham, 'retired now but a wonderful character – did most of the booksploring in the early days.'

  '—but they are old and full of errors,' continued the Bellman. 'New technology is here to be used, guys. Anyone who wants to attend a training course on how ISBN numbers relate to trans-book travel, see the cat for details.'

  The Bellman looked around the room as if to reinforce the order, then unfolded a sheet of paper and adjusted his glasses.

  'Right. Item two. New recruit Thursday Next. Where are you?'

  The assembled Prose Resource Operatives looked around the room before I waved a hand to get their attention.

  'There you are. Thursday is apprenticed to Miss Havisham; I'm sure you'll all join me in we
lcoming her to our little band.'

  'Didn't like the way Jane Eyre turned out?' said a voice from the back. There was a hush and everyone watched as a middle-aged man stood up and walked up to the Bellman's dais

  'Who's that?' I whispered.

  'Harris Tweed,' replied Havisham. 'Dangerous and arrogant but quite brilliant – for a man.'

  'Who approved her application?'

  'She didn't apply, Harris – her appointment was a Quad Erat Demonstrandum. Her work within Jane Eyre ridding the book of the loathsome Hades is a good enough testimonial for me.'

  'But she altered the book!' cried Tweed angrily. 'Who's to say she wouldn't do the same again?'

  'I did what I did for the best,' I said in a loud voice, something that startled Harris slightly – I had a feeling that no one really stood up to him.

  'If it wasn't for Thursday we wouldn't have a book,' said the Bellman. 'A full book with a different ending is better than half a book without.'

  'That's not what the rules say, Bellman.'

  Miss Havisham spoke up.

  'Truly competent literary detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr Tweed – you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps?'

  'It's not that at all,' protested Tweed, 'but what if she were here for another reason altogether?'

  'I shall vouch for her!' said Miss Havisham in a thunderous tone. 'I call for a show of hands. If there is a majority amongst you who think my judgment poor, then put your hands up now and I will banish her back to where she belongs!'

  She said it with such a show of fierce temper that I thought no one would raise their hands; in the event, only one did – Tweed himself, who, after reading the situation, judged that good grace was the best way in which to retire. He gave a wan half-smile, bowed and said:

  'I withdraw all objections.'

  'Good,' said the Bellman as Tweed returned to his desk. 'As I was saying – we welcome Miss Next to Jurisfiction and we don't want any of those silly practical jokes we usually play on new recruits, okay?'

  He looked sternly around the room before returning to his list.

  'Item three: there is an illegal PageRunner from Shakespeare so this is a priority red. Perp's name is Feste; worked as a jester in Twelfth Night. Took flight after a debauched night with Sir Toby. Who wants to go after him?'

  A hand went up in the crowd.

  'Fabien? Thanks. You may have to stand in for him for a while; take Falstaff with you but please, Sir John, stay out of sight. You've been allowed to stay in Merry Wives but don't push your luck.'

  Falstaff got up, bowed clumsily, burped, and sat down again.

  'Item four. Interloper in Sherlock Holmes by the name of Mycroft – turns up quite unexpectedly in The Greek Interpreter and claims to be his brother. Anyone know anything about this?'

  I shrank lower, hoping that no one would have enough knowledge of my world to know we were related. Sly old fox! So he had rebuilt the Prose Portal. I covered my mouth to hide a smile.

  'No?' went on the Bellman. 'Well, Sherlock seems to think he is his brother and so far there is no harm done – but I think this would be a good opportunity to open up a way into the Sherlock Holmes series. Suggestions, anyone?'

  'How about through The Murders in the Rue Morgue?' suggested Tweed to the accompaniment of laughter and catcalls from around the room.

  'Order! Sensible suggestions, please. Poe is out of bounds and will remain so. It's possible The Murders in the Rue Morgue might open an avenue to all detective stories that came after it, but I won't sanction the risk Now – any other suggestions?'

  'The Lost World.'

  There were a few giggles but they soon stopped; this time Tweed was serious.

  'Conan Doyle's other works might afford a link to the Sherlock Holmes series,' he added gravely. 'I know we can get into The Lost World; I just need to find a way to move beyond that.'

  There was an uncomfortable moment as the Jurisfiction agents muttered to one another.

  'What's the problem?' I whispered.

  'Adventure stories always bring the highest risks to anyone establishing a new route,' replied Miss Havisham. 'The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic pot-boiler is a slapped face or a nasty burn from the Aga. Finding a way into King Solomon's Mines cost two agents' lives.'

  The Bellman spoke again.

  'The last booksplorer who went into The Lost World was shot by Lord Roxton.'

  'Gomez was an amateur,' retorted Tweed. 'I can take care of myself.'

  The Bellman thought about this for a moment, weighed up the pros and cons and then sighed.

  'Okay, you're on. But I want reports every ten pages, understand? Okay. Item five—'

  There was a noise from two younger members of the service, who were laughing about something.

  'Hey, listen up, guys. I'm not just talking for my health.'

  They were quiet.

  'Okay. Item five. Non-standard spelling. There have been some odd spellings reported in nineteenth – and twentieth-century texts, so keep your eyes open. It's probably just texters having a bit of fun, but it just might be the mispeling vyrus coming back to life.'

  There was a groan from the assembled agents.

  'Okay, okay, keep your hair on – I only said "might". Samuel Johnson's dictionary cured it after the 1744 outbreak and Lavinia-Webster and the OED keep it all in check, but we have to be careful of any new strains. I know this is boring but I want every misspelling you come across reported and given to the cat. He'll pass it on to Agent Libris at Text Grand Central.'

  He paused for effect and looked at us sternly.

  'We can't let this get out of hand, people. Okay. Item six. There are thirty-one pilgrims in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales but only twenty-four stories. Mrs Cavendish, weren't you keeping an eye on this?'

  'We've been watching Canterbury Tales all week,' said a woman dressed in the most fabulously outrageous clothes, 'and every time we look away another story gets boojummed. Someone's getting in there and erasing the story from within.'

  'Deane? Any idea who's behind all this?'

  Daphne Farquitt's romantic lead stood up and consulted a list.

  'I think I can see a pattern beginning to emerge,' he said. ' "The Merchant's Wife" was the first to go, followed by "The Milliner's Tale", "The Pedlar's Cock", "The Cuckold's Revenge", "The Maiden's Wonderful Arse" and, most recendy, "The Contest of Farts". "The Cook's Tale" is already half gone – it looks as though whoever is doing this has a problem with the healthy vulgarity of Chaucerian texts.'

  'In that case,' said the Bellman with a grave expression, 'it looks like we have an active cell of Bowdlerisers at work again. "The Miller's Tale" will be the next to go – I want twenty-four-hour surveillance and we should get someone on the inside. Volunteers?'

  'I'll go,' said Deane. 'I'll take the place of the host – he won't mind.'

  'Good. Keep me informed of your progress.'

  'I say!' said Akrid Snell, putting up his hand.

  'What is it, Snell?'

  'If you're going to be the host, Deane, can you get Chaucer to cool it a bit on the Sir Topaz story? He's issued a writ for libel, and not to put too fine a point on it, I think we could lose our trousers over this one.'

  Deane nodded and the Bellman returned to his notes.

  'Item seven. Now this I regard as kind of serious, guys.'

  He held up an old copy of the Bible.

  'In this 1631 printing of the Bible, the seventh commandment reads: "Thou shalt commit adultery." '

  There was a mixture of shock and stifled giggles from the small gathering.

  'I don't know who did this but it's just not funny. Fooling around with internal Text Operating Systems might have a sort of mischievous appeal to it, but it's not big and it's not clever. The occasional bout of high spirits I might overlook but this isn't an isolated incident. I've also got a 1716 Bible here that urges the faithful to "sin on more", and
a Cambridge printing from 1653 which tells us that "The unrighteous shall inherit the Kingdom of God". Now listen, I don't want to be accused of having no sense of humour, but this is something that I will not tolerate. If I find out the joker who has been doing this, it'll be a month's enforced holiday inside Ant & Bee.'

  'Marlowe!' said Tweed, making it sound like a cough.

  'What was that?'

  'Nothing. Bad cough – sorry.'

  The Bellman stared at Tweed for a moment, laid down the offending Bible and looked at his watch.

  'Okay, that's it for now. I'll be doing individual briefings in a few minutes. We thank Mrs Dashwood for her hospitality and Perkins – it's your turn to feed the Morlock.'

  There was a groan from Perkins. The group started to wander off and talk to one another. The Bellman had to raise his voice to be heard.

  'We go off shift in eight bells, and listen up!'

  The assembled Jurisfiction staff stopped for a moment.

  'Let's be careful out there.'

  The Bellman paused, tingled his bell and everyone returned to their tasks. I caught Tweed's eye. He smiled, made a pistol out of his hand and pointed it at me. I did the same back and he laughed.

  'King Pellinore,' said the Bellman to a dishevelled, white-haired, whiskery gentleman in half-armour, 'there has been a sighting of the Questing Beast in the back-story of Middlemarch.'

  King Pellinore's eyes opened wide; he muttered something that sounded like. 'What, what, hey, hey?', drew himself up to his full height, picked a helmet from a nearby table and clanked from the room. The Bellman ticked his list, consulted the next entry and turned to us.

  'Next and Havisham,' he said. 'Something easy to begin with. Bloophole needs closing. It's in Great Expectations, Miss Havisham, so you can go straight home afterwards.'

  'What do we do?'

  'Page two,' explained the Bellman, consulting his clipboard. 'Abel Magwitch escapes – swims, one assumes – from a prison hulk with a "great iron" on his leg. He'd sink like a stone. No Magwitch, no escape, no career in Australia, no cash to give to Pip, no "expectations", no story. He's got to have the shackles still on him when he reaches the shore so Pip can fetch a file to release him, so you're going to have to footle with the back-story. Any questions?'