Jasper Fforde - The Eyre Affair

‘I don’t suppose a week went by in the sixties when he wasn’t being kidnapped by one foreign power or another,’ she sighed wistfully, thinking of the exciting old days with a whiff of nostalgia.

‘Some things have to be kept secret for operational purposes,’ I recited parrot fashion. ‘Secrecy is our biggest weapon.’

‘I read in The Mole that SpecOps is riddled with secret societies. The Wombats in particular,’ murmured Mycroft, placing his completed equation in his jacket pocket. ‘Is this true?’

I shrugged.

‘No more than in any other walk of life, I suppose. I’ve not noticed it myself, but then as a woman I wouldn’t be approached by the Wombats anyway.’

‘Seems a bit unfair to me,’ said Polly in a tut-tutting voice. ‘I’m fully in support of secret societies—the more the better—but I think they should be open to everyone, men and women.’

‘Men are welcome to it,’ I replied. ‘It means that at least half the population won’t have to make complete idiots of themselves. It surprises me that you haven’t been approached to join, Uncle.’

Mycroft grunted.

‘I used to be one at Oxford many years ago. Waste of time. It was all a bit silly; the pouch used to chafe something awful and all that gnawing played hell with my overbite.’

There was a pause.

‘Major Phelps is in town,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I met him on the airship. He’s a colonel now but is still blasting the same old line.’

By an unwritten rule, no one ever spoke of the Crimea or Anton in the house. There was an icy hush.

‘Really?’ replied my mother with seemingly no emotion.

‘Joffy has a parish up at Wanborough these days,’ announced Polly, hoping to change the subject. ‘He’s opened the first GSD church in Wessex. I spoke to him last week; he says that it has been quite popular.’

Joffy was my other brother. He had taken to the faith at an early age and tried all sorts of religions before settling for the GSD.

‘GSD?’ murmured Mycroft. ‘What in heaven’s name is that?’

‘Global Standard Deity,’ answered Polly. ‘It’s a mixture of all the religions. I think it’s meant to stop religious wars.’

Mycroft grunted again.

‘Religion isn’t the cause of wars, it’s the excuse. What’s the melting point of beryllium?’

‘180.57 degrees Centigrade,’ murmured Polly without even thinking. ‘I think Joffy is doing a grand job. You should call him, Thursday.’

‘Maybe.’

Joffy and I had never been close. He had called me Doofus and smacked me on the back of my head every day for fifteen years. I had to break his nose to make him stop.

‘If you are calling people why don’t you call—‘

‘Mother!’

‘He’s quite successful now, I understand, Thursday. It might be good for you to see him again.’

‘Landen and I are finished, Mum. Besides, I have a boyfriend.’

This, to my mother, was extremely good news. It had been of considerable anguish to her that I wasn’t spending more time with swollen ankles, haemorrhoids and a bad back, popping out grandchildren and naming them after obscure relatives. Joffy wasn’t the sort of person who had children, which kind of left it up to me. In all honesty I wasn’t against the idea of kids, it was just that I wasn’t going to have them on my own. And Landen had been the last man to have remotely interested me as a possible life partner.

‘A boyfriend? What’s his name?’

I said the first name that popped into my head.

‘Snood. Filbert Snood.’

‘Nice name.’ My mother smiled.

‘Daft name,’ grumbled Mycroft. ‘Like Landen Parke-Laine, come to that. Can I get down? It’s time for Jack Spratt’s Casebook.’

Polly and Mycroft both got up and left us. Landen’s name didn’t come up again and neither did Anton’s. Mum offered me my old room back but I quickly declined. We had argued ferociously when I had lived at home. Besides, I was almost thirty-six. I finished my coffee and walked with my mother to the front door.

‘Let me know if you change your mind, darling,’ she said. ‘Your room is the same as it always was.’

If that were true the dreadful posters of my late teenage crushes would still be up on the wall. It was a thought too hideous to contemplate.

I pulled into a parking place in front of the large floodlit building and locked the car. The hotel seemed to be quite busy, and as soon as I walked into the lobby I could see why. At least two dozen men and women were milling about dressed in large white baggy shirts and breeches. My heart sank. A large notice near reception welcomed all comers to the I I2th Annual John Milton Convention. I took a deep breath and fought my way to the reception desk. A middle-aged receptionist with oversize earrings gave me her best welcoming smile.

‘Good evening, madam, welcome to the Finis, the last word in comfort and style. We are a four-star hotel with many modern features and services. Our sincere wish is to make your stay a happy one!’

She recited it like a mantra. I could see her working at SmileyBurger just as easily.

‘The name’s Next. I have a reservation.’

The receptionist nodded and flicked through the reservation cards.

‘Let’s see. Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Next, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton. No, sorry. It doesn’t look like we have a booking for you.’

‘Could you check again?’

She looked again and found it.

‘Here it is. Someone had put it with the Miltons by accident. I’ll need an imprint of a major credit card. We take: Babbage, Goliath, Newton, Pascal, Breakfast Club and Jam Roly-Poly.’

‘Jam Roly-Poly?’

‘Sorry,’ she said sheepishly, ‘wrong list. That’s the choice of puddings tonight.’ She smiled again as I passed over my Babbage charge-card.

‘You’re in Room 8128,’ she said, handing me my key attached to a key-ring so large I could barely lift it. ‘All our rooms are fully air-conditioned and are equipped with mini-bar and tea-making equipment. Did you park your car in our spacious three-hundred-place self-draining carpark?’

I hid a smile.

‘Thank you, I did. Do you have any pet facilities?’

‘Of course. All Finis hotels have full kennel facilities. What sort of pet?’

‘A dodo.’

‘How sweet! My cousin Arnold had a great auk once called Beany—he was Version 1.4 so didn’t live long. I understand they’re a lot better these days. I’ll reserve your little friend a place. Enjoy your stay. I hope you have an interest in seventeenth-century lyrical poets.’

‘Only professionally.’

‘Lecturer?’

‘LiteraTec.’

‘Ah.’

The receptionist leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘To tell you the truth, Miss Next, I hate Milton. His early stuff is okay, I suppose, but he disappeared up his own arse after Charlie got his head lopped off. Goes to show what too much republicanism does for you.’