‘Old wives’ tales. There’s no Sub-basement twenty-seven.’
‘Sort of like using the Jabberwock to frighten children, yes?’
‘Well, not really,’ replied Deane thoughtfully, ‘because there is a Jabberwock Frightfully nice fellow—good at fly-fishing and plays the bongos. I’ll introduce you some time.’
He looked at his watch.
‘Goodness. Well, hey-ho, see you about!’
Despite Vern’s assurances about Harris Tweed’s threats I still felt nervous. Was jumping into a copy of Poe from my side enough of a misdemeanour to attract Tweed’s ire? And how much training would I need before I could even attempt to rescue Jack Schitt? I returned to Miss Havisham—whose desk, I noticed, was as far from the Red Queen’s as one could get—and laid her tea in front of her.
‘What do you know about Sub-basement twenty-seven?’ I asked her.
‘Old wives’ tales,’ replied Havisham, concentrating on the report she was filing. ‘One of the other PROs trying to frighten you?’
‘Sort of.’
I looked around while Miss Havisham busied herself. There seemed to be a lot of activity in the room; PROs melted in and out of the air around me with the Bellman moving around, reading instructions from his clipboard. My eyes alighted on a shiny horn that was connected to a polished wood-and-brass device on the desk by a flexible copper tube. It reminded me of a very old form of gramophone—something that Thomas Edison might have come up with
Miss Havisham looked up, saw I was trying to read the instructions on the brass plaque and said:
‘It’s a Footnoterphone. Try it out if you wish.’
I took the horn and looked inside. There was a cork plug pushed into the end attached to a short chain. I looked at Miss Havisham.
‘Just give the title of the book, page, character, and if you really want to be specific, line and word.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘As simple as that.’
I pulled out the plug and heard a voice say:
‘Operator services. Can I help you?’
‘Oh! Yes, er, book-to-book, please.’ I thought of a novel I had been reading recently and chose a page and line at random. ‘It Was a Dark and Stormy Night, page 156, line four.’
‘Trying to connect you. Thank you for using FNP Communications.’
There were a few clicking noises and I heard a man’s voice saying:
‘…and our hearts, though stout and brave, still like muffled…’
The operator came back on the line.
‘I’m sorry, we had a crossed line. You are through now, caller, thank you for using FNP Communications.’
Now all I could hear was the low murmur of conversation above the sound of ship engines. At a loss to know what to say I just garbled:
‘Antonio?’
There was the sound of a confused voice and I hurriedly replaced the plug.
‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ said Havisham kindly, putting her report down. ‘Paperwork! My goodness. Come along, we’ve got to visit Wemmick in Stores. I like him so you’ll like him. I won’t expect you to do much on this first assignment—just stay close to me and observe. Finished your tea? We’re off!’
I hadn’t, of course, but Miss Havisham grabbed my elbow and before I knew it we were back in the huge entrance lobby. Our footsteps rang out on the polished floor as we crossed to one side of the vestibule, where a small counter not more than six feet wide was set into the deep red marble wall. A battered notice told us to take a number and we would be called.
‘Rank must have its privileges!’ cried Miss Havisham gaily as she walked to the front of the queue. A few of the Jurisfiction agents looked up but most were too busy swotting up on their pass notes, cramming for their impending destinations.
Harris Tweed was in front of us, kitting up for his trip into The Lost World. On the counter before him there was a complete safari suit, knapsack, binoculars and revolver.
‘—and one Rigby.416 sporting rifle, plus sixty rounds of ammunition.’
The storekeeper laid a mahogany rifle box on the counter and shook his head sadly.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer an M16? A charging Stegosaurus can take some stopping, I’ll be bound.’
‘An Mi6 would be sure to raise suspicions, Mr Wemmick. Besides, I’m a bit of a traditionalist at heart.’
Mr Wemmick sighed, shook his head and handed the clipboard to Tweed for him to sign. Harris grunted his thanks to Mr Wemmick, signed the top copy, had the docket stamped and returned to him before he gathered up his possessions, nodded respectfully at Miss Havisham, ignored me and then murmured: ‘…long, dark, wood-panelled corridor lined with bookshelves…’ before vanishing.
‘Good day, Miss Havisham!’ said Mr Wemmick politely as soon as we stepped up. ‘And how are we this day?’
‘In health, I think, Mr Wemmick. Is Mr Jaggers quite well?’
‘Quite well to my way of thinking I should say, Miss Havisham, quite well.’
‘This is Miss Next, Mr Wemmick. She has joined us recently.’
‘Delighted!’ remarked Mr Wemmick, who looked every bit as he was described in Great Expectations. That is to say, he was short, had a slightly pockmarked face, and had been that way for about forty years.
‘Where are you two bound?’
‘Home!’ said Miss Havisham, laying the docket on the counter.
Mr Wemmick picked up the piece of paper and looked at it for a moment before disappearing into the storeroom and rummaging noisily.
‘The stores are indispensable for our purposes, Thursday. Wemmick quite literally writes his own inventory. It all has to be signed for and returned, of course, but there is very little that he doesn’t have. Isn’t that so, Mr Wemmick?’
‘Exactly so!’ came a voice from behind a large pile of Turkish costumes and a realistic rubber bison.
‘By the way, can you swim?’ asked Miss Havisham.
‘Yes.’
Mr Wemmick returned with a small pile of items.
‘Life vests, life-preserving for the purpose of—two. Rope, in case of trouble—one. Lifebelt, to assist Magwitch buoyancy—one. Cash, for incidental expenses—ten shillings and fourpence. Cloak, for disguising said agents Next and Havisham, heavy duty, black—two. Packed supper—two. Sign here.’
Miss Havisham picked up the pen and paused before signing.
‘We’ll need my boat, Mr Wemmick,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘I’ll Footnoterphone ahead, Miss H,’ said Wemmick, winking broadly. ‘You’ll find it on the jetty.’
‘For a man you are not bad at all, Mr Wemmick!’ said Miss Havisham. ‘Thursday, gather up the equipment!’
‘What now?’ I asked, weighed down by the large canvas bag.
‘Dickens is within walking distance,’ explained Havisham, ‘but it’s better practice for you if you jump us straight there—there are over fifty thousand miles of shelf space.’
‘Ah—okay, I know how to do that,’ I muttered, putting down the bag, taking out my travel book and flicking to the passage about the library.
‘Hold on to me as you jump and think Dickens as you read.’
So I did, and within a trice we were at the right place in the library.
‘How was that?’ I asked quite proudly.
‘Not bad,’ said Havisham. ‘But you forgot the bag.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll wait while you get it.’
So I read myself back to the lobby, retrieved the bag to a few friendly jibes from Deane, and returned—but by accident to a series of adventuresome books for plucky girls by someone named Charles Pickens, so I read the library passage again and was soon with Miss Havisham.
‘This is the outings book,’ she said without looking up. ‘Name, destination, date, time—I’ve filled it in already. Are you armed?’
‘Always—do you expect any trouble?’
Miss Havisham drew out her small pistol, released the twin bar
rels, pivoted it upward and gave me one of her more serious stares.
‘I always expect trouble, Thursday. I was on HPD—Heathcliff Protection Duty—in Wuthering Heights for two years and, believe me, the ProCaths tried everything—I personally saved him from assassination eight times.’
She extracted a spent cartridge, replaced it with a live one and locked the barrels back into place.
‘But Great Expectations? Where’s the danger there?’
She rolled up her sleeve and showed me a livid scar on her forearm.
‘Things can turn pretty ugly even in Toytown,’ she explained. ‘Believe me, Larry is no lamb—I was lucky to escape with my life.’
I must have been looking slightly nervous because she went on:
‘Everything okay? You can bale out whenever you want, you know. Say the word and you’ll be back in Swindon before you can say “Mrs Hubbard”.’
She looked at me intensely and I thought of the baby. I’d survived the sales with no ill effects—how hard could ‘footling’ with the back-story of a Dickens novel be? Besides, I needed all the practice I could get.
‘Ready when you are, Miss Havisham.’
She nodded, rolled down her sleeve again, pulled Great Expectations from the bookshelf and opened it on one of the reading desks.
‘We need to go in before the story really begins so this is not a standard book jump. Are you paying attention?’
‘Yes, Miss Havisham.’
‘Good. I’ve no desire to go through this more than once. First, read us into the book.’
I did as she bade—making quite sure I had hold of the bag this time—and there we were, in among the gravestones on the opening page of Great Expectations, the chill and dampness in the air, the fog drifting in from the sea. On the far side of the graveyard a small boy was crouching among the weathered stones, talking to himself as he stared at two gravestones set to one side. But there was someone else there. In fact, there was a group of people, digging away at an area just outside the churchyard walls on the opposite side to the boy, illuminated in the fading light by two powerful electric lights fed by a small generator that hummed to itself some distance away.
‘Who are they?’ I whispered.
‘Okay,’ hissed Havisham, not hearing me straight away, ‘now we jump to wherever we want by… What did you say?’
I nodded in the direction of the group. One of their number pushed a wheelbarrow along a plank and dumped its contents on to a large pile of spoil.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Miss Havisham, walking briskly towards the small group. ‘It’s Commander Bradshaw!’
I trotted after her, and I soon saw that the digging was of an archaeological nature. Pegs were set in the ground and joined by lengths of string, delineating the area in which the volunteers were scraping with trowels, all trying to make as little noise as possible. Sitting on a folding safari seat was a man dressed like a big-game hunter. He wore a safari suit, pith helmet and sported both a monocle and a large and bushy moustache. He was also barely three feet tall. When he got up from his chair, he was shorter.
‘ ‘Pon my word, it’s the Havisham girlie!’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Estella, you’re looking younger every time I see you!’
Miss Havisham thanked him and introduced me. Bradshaw shook me by the hand and welcomed me to Jurisfiction.
‘What are you up to, Trafford?’ asked Havisham.
‘Archaeology for the Charles Dickens Foundation, m’girl. A few of their scholars are of the belief that Great Expectations began not in this churchyard but in Pip’s house when his parents were still about. There is no manuscriptual evidence so we thought we’d have a little dig around the environs and see if we could pick up any evidence of previously overwritten scenes.’
‘Any luck?’
‘We’ve struck a reworked idea that ended up in Our Mutual Friend, a few dirty limericks and an unintelligible margin squiggle—but nothing much.’
Havisham wished him well; we said our goodbyes and left them to their dig.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘You’ll find around here that there is not much that is usual,’ replied Havisham. ‘It’s what makes this job such fun. Where did we get to?’
‘We were going to jump into the pre-book back-story.’
‘I remember. To jump forward we have only to concentrate on the page numbers, or, if you prefer, a specific event. To go backward before the first page we have to think of negative page numbers or an event that we assume happened before the book began.’
‘How do I picture a negative page number?’
‘Visualise something—an albatross, say.’
‘Yes?’
‘Okay, now take the albatross away.’
‘Yes?’
‘Now take another albatross away.’
‘How can I? There are no albatrosses left!’
‘Okay; imagine I have lent you an albatross to make up your seabird deficit. How many albatrosses have you now?’
‘None.’
‘Good. Now relax while I take my albatross back.’
I shivered as a coldness swept through me and for a fleeting moment an empty, vaguely albatross-shaped void opened and closed in front of me. But the strange thing was, for that briefest moment I understood the principle involved—but then it was gone like a dream upon waking. I blinked and stared at Havisham.
‘That,’ she announced, ‘was a negative albatross. Now you try it—only use page numbers instead of albatrosses.’
I tried hard to picture a negative page number but it didn’t work and I found myself in the garden of Satis House, watching two boys square up for a fight. Miss Havisham was soon beside me.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m trying—’
‘You are not, my girl There are two sorts of people in this world, doers and tryers. You are the latter and I am trying to make you the former. Now concentrate, girl!’
So I had another attempt and this time found myself in a curious tableau resembling the graveyard in Chapter 1 but with the graves, wall and church little more than cardboard cut-outs. The two featured characters, Magwitch and Pip, were also very two-dimensional and as still as statues—except that their eyes swivelled to look at me as I jumped in.
‘Oi,’ hissed Magwitch between clenched teeth, not moving a muscle, ‘piss off.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Piss off!’ repeated Magwitch, this time more angrily.
I was just pondering all this when Havisham caught up with me, grabbed my hand and jumped to where we were meant to be.
‘What was that?’ I asked.
‘The frontispiece. You’re not a natural at this, are you?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Never mind,’ said Miss Havisham in a kindlier tone, ‘we’ll make a Prose Resource Operative out of you yet.’
We walked down a jetty to where Havisham’s boat was moored. But it wasn’t any old boat. It was a polished-wood-and-gleaming-chrome Riva. I stepped aboard the motor launch and stowed the gear.
‘Cast off!’ yelled Havisham, who seemed to take on a new lease of life when confronted by anything with a powerful engine. I did as I was told. Miss Havisham started the twin Chevrolet petrol engines and to a throaty growl from the exhausts we made our way into the darkness of the Thames. I pulled two cloaks from the bag, donned one and took the other to Miss Havisham, who was standing at the helm, the wind blowing through her grey hair and tugging at her tattered veil.
‘Isn’t this a bit anachronistic?’ I asked.
‘Officially yes,’ replied Havisham, weaving to avoid a small jollyboat, ‘but we’re actually in the back-story minus one day, so I could have brought in a squadron of hurricanes and the entire Ringling Brothers circus and no one would be any the wiser. If we had to do this anytime during the book then we’d be stuck with whatever was available—which can be a nuisance.’
We were moving upriver against a quickening tide. It was gon
e midnight, and I was glad of the cloak. Billows of fog blew in from the sea and gathered in great banks that caused Miss Havisham to slow down, within twenty minutes the fog had closed in and we were alone in the cold and clammy darkness. Miss Havisham shut down the engines, doused the navigation lights and we gently drifted in with the tide.
‘Sandwich and soup?’ she asked, peering in the picnic basket.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Do you want my Wagon Wheel?’
‘I was about to offer you mine.’
We heard the prison ships before we saw them—the sound of men coughing, cursing and the occasional shout of fear. Miss Havisham started the engines and idled slowly in the direction of the sounds. Then the mist parted and we could see the prison hulk appear in front of us as a large black shape that rose from the water, the only light visible the oil lamps that flickered through the gunports. The old man-of-war was secured fore and aft by heavily rusted anchor chains against which flotsam had collected in a tangle. After checking the name of the ship, Miss Havisham slowed down and stopped the engines. We drifted down the flanks of the prison hulk, and I used the boathook to fend us off. The gunports were above us and out of reach, but as we moved silently down the ship we came across a home-made rope draped from a window on the upper gun deck. I quickly fastened the boat to a projecting ring and the motor launch swung around and settled facing the current.
‘Now what?’ I hissed.
Miss Havisham pointed to the life preserver and I quickly tied it on to the end of the home-made rope.
‘That’s it?’ I asked.
‘That’s it,’ replied Miss Havisham ‘Not much to it, is there? Wait! Look there!’
She pointed to the side of the prison hulk where a strange creature had attached itself to one of the gunports It had large bat-like wings folded untidily across the back of its body, which was covered by patchy tufts of matted fur. It had a face like a fox, sad brown eyes and a long, thin beak that was inserted deep into the wood of the gunport. It was oblivious to us both and made quiet sucky noises as it fed.
There was a loud explosion and a bullet struck close to the strange creature. It immediately unfolded its large wings in alarm and flew off into the night.
‘Blast!’ said Miss Havisham, lowering her pistol and pushing the safety back on. ‘Missed!’
Lost in a Good Book tn-2 Page 27
