Lost in a Good Book

by Jasper Fforde

  'Next!' he bellowed. 'Back rent Friday or I'll throw all your stuff in the skip!'

  'You can't do that.'

  'I can,' he said, holding up a dog-eared lease agreement. 'Pets are strictly against the terms of the lease. Pay up.'

  'There's no pet in here,' I explained innocently.

  'What's that, then?'

  Pickwick had made a quiet plock-plock noise and poked her head round the door to see what was going on. It was a badly timed move.

  'Oh, that. I'm looking after her for a friend.'

  My landlord's eyes suddenly lit up as he looked closer at Pickwick, who shrank back nervously. She was a rare Version 1.2 and my landlord seemed to know this.

  'Hand over the dodo,' he mused avariciously, 'and I'll give you four months' free rent.'

  'She's not for trading,' I said firmly. I could feel Pickwick quivering behind me.

  'Ah,' said my landlord greedily. 'Then you have two days to pay all your bills or you're out on your sweet little SpecOps arse.

  'You say the sweetest things.'

  He glared at me, handed me a bill and disappeared off down the corridor to harass someone else.

  My bank statements made for depressing reading. I was not good with money. My cards had reached their limit and my overdraft was nearly used up. SpecOps wages were just about enough to keep you fed and with a roof over your head, but buying the Speedster had all but cleared me out and I hadn't even seen the garage repair bills yet. There was a nervous plock-plock from the kitchen.

  'I'd sooner sell myself,' I told Pickwick, who was standing expectantly with collar and lead in her beak.

  I stashed the bank statements back into the shoe box and took her to the park. Perhaps it would be better to say that she took me – she was the one who knew the way. She played coyly with a few other dodos while I sat on a park bench. A crotchety old woman sat next to me and turned out to be Mrs Scroggins, who lived directly below. She told me not to make so much noise in future, and then, without drawing breath, gave me a few extremely useful tips about smuggling pets in and out of the building. I picked up a copy of The Owl on the way home and was glad to see that the discovery of Cardenio had not yet broken. I smuggled Pickwick back into my apartment and decided that now was the time to visit the closest thing to the Delphic Oracle I would ever know: Granny Next.

  Gran was playing Ping-Pong at the SpecOps Twilight Homes when I found her. She was thrashing her opponent soundly while nervous nurses looked on, trying to stop her before she fell over and broke another couple of bones. Granny Next was old. Really old. Her pink skin looked more wrinkled than the most wrinkled prune I had ever seen, and her face and hands were livid with dark liver spots. She was dressed in her usual blue gingham dress and hailed me from the other side of the room as I walked in.

  'Ah!' she said. 'Thursday! Fancy a game?'

  'Don't you think you've played enough today?'

  'Nonsense' Grab a paddle and we'll play to the first point.'

  I picked up a paddle as a ball careened past me.

  'Wasn't ready!' I protested as another ball came over the net. I swiped at it and missed.

  'Ready is as ready does, Thursday. I'd have thought you knew that more than most!'

  I grunted and returned the next ball, which was deftly deflected back to me.

  'How are you, Gran?'

  'Old,' she replied, whacking the ball towards me with savage backspin. 'Old and tired and I need looking after. The Grim Reaper is lurking close by – I can almost smell him!'

  'Gran!'

  She missed my shot and called 'No ball' before pausing for a moment.

  'Do you want to know a secret, young Thursday?'

  'Go on, then,' I replied, taking the opportunity to retrieve some balls.

  'I am cursed with eternal life!'

  'Perhaps it just seems like it, Gran.'

  'Insolent pup. I didn't attain one hundred and eight years on physical fortitude or a statistical quirk alone. I got mixed up with some oddness in my youth and the long and short of it is that I can't shuffle off this mortal coil until I have read the ten most boring classics.'

  I looked at her earnest expression and bright eyes. She wasn't kidding.

  'How far have you got?' I replied, returning a ball that went wide.

  'Well, that's the trouble, isn't it?' she replied, serving again. 'I read what I think is the dullest book of God's own earth, finish the last page, go to sleep with a smile on my face and wake up the following morning feeling better than ever!'

  'Have you tried Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene?, I asked. 'Six volumes of boring Spenserian stanzas, the only saving grace of which is that he didn't write the twelve volumes he had planned.'

  'Read them all,' replied Gran, 'and his other poems, too, just in case.'

  I put down my paddle. The balls kept plinking past me.

  'You win, Gran. I need to talk to you.'

  She reluctantly agreed and I helped her to her bedroom, a small, chintzily decorated cell she darkly referred to as her 'departure lounge'. It was sparsely furnished; there was a picture of me, Anton, Joffy and my mother alongside a couple of empty frames.

  'They sideslipped my husband, Gran.'

  'When did they take him?' she asked, looking at me over her glasses in the way that grannies do; she never questioned what I said and I explained everything to her as quickly as I could – except for the bit about the baby. I'd promised Landen I wouldn't.

  'Hmm,' said Granny Next when I had finished. 'They took my husband too – I know how you feel.'

  'Why did they do it?'

  'The same reason they did it to you. Love is a wonderful thing, my dear, but it leaves you wide open to blackmail. Give way to tyranny and others will suffer just as badly as you – perhaps worse.'

  'Are you saying I shouldn't try to get Landen back?'

  'Not at all; just think carefully before you help them. They don't care about you or Landen; all they want is Jack Schitt. Is Anton still dead?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'What a shame. I hoped to see your brother before I popped myself. Do you know what the worst bit about dying is?'

  'Tell me, Gran.'

  'You never get to see how it all turns out.'

  'Did you get your husband back, Gran?'

  Instead of answering she unexpectedly placed her hand on my midriff and smiled that small and all-knowing smile that grandmothers seem to learn at granny school, along with crochet, January sales battle tactics and wondering what you are doing upstairs.

  'June?' she asked.

  You never argue with Granny Next, nor seek to know how she knows such things.

  'July. But Gran, I don't know if it's Landen's, or Miles Hawke's, or whose!'

  'You should call this Hawke fellow and ask him.'

  'I can't do that!'

  'Worry yourself woolly, then,' she retorted. 'Mind you, my money is on Landen as the father – as you say, the memories avoided the sideslip, so why not the baby? Believe me, everything will turn out fine. Perhaps not in the way that you imagine, but fine nonetheless.'

  I wished I could share her optimism. She took her hand off my stomach and lay back on the bed, the energy expended during the Ping-Pong having taken its toll.

  'I need to find a way to get back into books without the Prose Portal, Gran.'

  She opened her eyes and looked at me with a keenness that belied her old age.

  'Humph!' she said, then added: 'I was SpecOps for seventy-seven years in eighteen different departments. I jumped backwards and forwards and even sideways on occasion. I've chased bad guys who make Hades look like St Zvlkx and saved the world from annihilation eight times. I've seen such weird shit you can't even begin to comprehend, but for all of that I have absolutely no idea how Mycroft managed to jump you into Jane Eyre.'

  'Ah.'

  'Sorry, Thursday – but that's the way it is. If I were you I'd work the problem out backwards. Who was the last person you met who could book-jump?'
<
br />   'Mrs Nakajima.'

  'And how did she manage it?'

  'She just read herself in, I suppose.'

  'Have you tried it?'

  I shook my head.

  'Perhaps you should,' she replied with deathly seriousness. 'The first time you went into Jane Eyre – wasn't that a book jump?'

  'I guess.'

  'Perhaps,' she said, as she picked a book at random off the shelf above her bed and tossed it across to me, 'perhaps you had better try.'

  I picked the book up.

  'The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies?'

  'Well, you've got to start somewhere, haven't you?' replied Gran with a chuckle. I helped her take off her blue gingham shoes and made her more comfortable.

  'One hundred and eight!' she muttered 'I feel like the bunny in that Fusioncell ad – you know, the one that has to run on "Brand X"?'

  'You're Fusioncell all the way to me, Gran.'

  She gave a faint smile and leaned back on the pillows.

  'Read the book to me, my dear.'

  I sat down and opened the small Beatrix Potter volume. I glanced up at Gran, who had closed her eyes.

  'Read!'

  So I did, right from the front to the back.

  'Anything?'

  'No,' I replied sadly, 'nothing.'

  'Not even the whiff of garden refuse or the distant buzz of a lawnmower?'

  'Not a thing.'

  'Hah!' said Gran. 'Read it to me again.'

  So I read it again, and again after that.

  'Still nothing?'

  'No, Gran,' I replied, beginning to get bored.

  'How do you see the character of Mrs Tittlemouse?'

  'Resourceful and intelligent,' I mused. 'Probably a gossip and likes to name-drop. Leagues ahead of Benjamin in the brain department.'

  'How do you figure that'' queried Gran.

  'Well, by allowing his children to sleep so vulnerably in the open air Benjamin clearly shows minimal parenting skills, yet he has enough preservation to cover his own face. It was Flopsy who had to come and look for him as this sort of thing has obviously happened before – it is clear that Benjamin can't be trusted with the children. Once again the mother has to show restraint and wisdom.'

  'Maybe so,' replied Gran, 'but there wasn't a great deal of wisdom in creeping into the garden and watching from the window while Mr and Mrs McGregor discovered they had been duped with the rotten vegetables, now, was there?'

  She had a point.

  'A narrative necessity,' I replied. 'I think there is more high drama if you follow the outcome of the rabbit's subterfuge, don't you? I think Flopsy, had she been making all the decisions, would have just returned to the burrow but was, on this occasion, overruled by Beatrix Potter.'

  'It's an interesting theory,' commented Gran, stretching her toes out on the counterpane and wiggling them to keep the circulation going. 'Mr McGregor's a nasty piece of work, isn't he? Quite the Darth Vader of children's literature.'

  'Misunderstood,' I told her 'I see Mrs McGregor as the villain of the piece. A sort of Lady Macbeth. His laboured counting and inane chuckling might indicate a certain degree of dementia that allows him to be easily dominated by Mrs McGregor's more aggressive personality. I think their marriage is in trouble, too. She describes him as a "silly old man" and "a doddering old fool" and claims the rotten vegetables in the sack are just a pointless prank to annoy her.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Not really. I think that's about it Good stuff, isn't it?'

  But Gran didn't answer; she just chuckled softly to herself.

  'So you're still here, then,' she commented. 'You didn't jump into Mr and Mrs McGregor's cottage?'

  'No.'

  'In that case,' began Gran with a mischievous air, 'how did you know she called him a "doddering old fool"?'

  'It's in the text.'

  'Better check, young Thursday.'

  I flicked to the correct page and found, indeed, that Mrs McGregor had said no such thing.

  'How odd!' I said. 'I must have made it up.'

  'Maybe,' replied Gran, 'or perhaps you overheard it. Close your eyes and describe the kitchen in Mr McGregor's cottage.'

  'Lilac-washed walls,' I mused, 'a large range with a kettle singing merrily above a coal fire. There is a dresser against one wall with floral-patterned crocks upon it and atop the scrubbed kitchen table there is a jug with flowers—'

  I lapsed into silence.

  'And how would you have known that?' asked Gran triumphantly. 'Unless you had actually been there?'

  I quickly reread the book several times, concentrating hard, but nothing similar happened. Perhaps I wanted it too much, I don't know. After the tenth reading I was just looking at the words and nothing else.

  'It's a start,' said Gran encouragingly. 'Try another book when you get home, but don't expect too much too soon – and I'd strongly recommend you go and look for Mrs Nakaima. Where does she live?'

  'She took retirement in Jane Eyre.'

  'Before that?'

  'Osaka.'

  'Then perhaps you should seek her there – and for heaven's sake relax!'

  I told her I would, kissed her on the forehead and quietly left the room.

  12

  At home with my memories

  * * *

  'Toad News Network was the top news station, Lydia Startright their top reporter. If there was a top event, you could bet your top dollar that Toad would make it their top story. When Tunbridge Wells was given to the Russians as war reparations there was no topper story – except, that is, the mammoth migrations, speculation on Bonzo the Wonder Hound's next movie or whether Lola Vavoom shaved her armpits or not. My father said that it was a delightfully odd – and dangerously self-destructive – quirk of humans that we were far more interested in pointless trivia than genuine news stories.'

  THURSDAY NEXT – A Life in SpecOps

  Since I was still on official leave pending the outcome of the SO-1 hearing, I went home and let myself into my apartment, kicked off my shoes and poured some pistachios into Pickwick's dish. I made some coffee and called Bowden for a long chat, trying to find out what else had changed since Landen's eradication. As it turned out, not much. Anton had still been blamed for the Charge of the Light Armoured Brigade, I had still lived in London for ten years, still arrived back in Swindon at the same time, still been up at Uffington picnicking the day before. Dad had once said that the past has an astonishing resistance to change, he wasn't kidding. I thanked Bowden, hung up and painted for a while, trying to relax. When that failed I went for a walk up at Uffington, joining the sightseers who had gathered to watch the smashed Hispano-Suiza being loaded on to a trailer. The Leviathan Airship Company had begun an inquiry and volunteered one of their directors to accept charges of corporate manslaughter. The hapless executive had begun his seven-year term already, thus hoping to avoid an expensive and damaging lawsuit for his company.

  I returned home, fixed myself some supper and then flopped in front of the telly, switching to Toad News Network.

  '—the Czar's chief negotiator has accepted the Foreign Minister's offer of Tunbridge Wells as war reparations,' intoned the anchorman gravely. 'The small town and two-thousand-acre environs would become a Russian-owned enclave named Botchkamos Istochnik within England and all citizens of the new Russian colony would be offered dual nationality. On the spot for TNN is Lydia Startright. Lydia, how are things down there?'

  The screen changed to Toad News Network's pre-eminent reporter in the main street of Tunbridge Wells.

  'There is a mixture of disbelief and astonishment among the residents of this sleepy Kent town,' responded Startright soberly, surrounded by an assortment of retired gentlefolk carrying shopping and looking vaguely bemused. 'Panic warm-clothing-shopping has given way to anger that the Foreign Secretary could make such a decision without mentioning some sort of generous compensation package. I have with me retired cavalry officer Colonel Prongg. Tell me, Colonel, what is your reac
tion to the news that you might be Colonel Pronski this time next month?'

  'Well,' said the colonel in an aggrieved tone, 'I would like to say that I am disgusted and appalled at the decision. Appalled and disgusted in the strongest possible terms. I didn't fight the Russkis for forty years only to become one in my retirement. Myself and Mrs Prongg will be moving, obviously!'

  'Since Imperial Russia is the second-wealthiest nation on the planet,' replied Lydia, 'Tunbridge Wells may find itself, like the island of Fetlar, to be an important offshore banking institution for Russia's wealthy nobility.'

  'Obviously,' replied the colonel, thinking hard, 'I would have to wait to see how things went before coming to any final decision. But if the takeover means colder winters, we'll move back to Brighton. Chilblains, y'know.'

  'There you have it, Carl. This is Lydia Startright reporting for Toad News Network, Tunbridge Wells.'

  The scene switched back to the studio.

  'Trouble at Mole TV,' continued the anchorman, 'and a bitter blow for the producers of Surviving Cortes, the channel's popular Aztec-conquering re-enactment series, when, instead of being simply voted out of the sealed set of Tenochtitlan, a contestant was sacrificed live to the Sun God. The show has been cancelled and an inquiry has been launched. Mole TV were said to be "sorry and dismayed about the incident", but pointed out that the show was "the highest rated on TV, even after the blood sacrifice". Brett?'

  The other newsreader appeared on-screen.

  'Thank you, Carl. Henry, a two-and-a-half-ton male juvenile from the Kirkbride herd, was the first mammoth to reach the winter pastures of Redruth at 6.07 p.m. this evening. Clarence Oldspot was there. Clarence?'

  The scene changed to a field in Cornwall where a bored-looking mammoth had almost vanished inside a scrum of TV news reporters and crowds of well-wishers. Clarence Oldspot was still wearing his flak jacket and looked bitterly disappointed that he was reporting on hairy, once extinct herbivores and not the Crimean front line.

  'Thank you, Brett. Well, the migration season is truly upon us and Henry, a two-hundred-to-one outsider, wrong-footed the bookies when—'