Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

'I'm home!' I yelled as I walked through the door. Pickwick plocked happily up to me, realised I didn't have any marshmallows, and then left in a huff, only to return with a piece of paper she had found in the waste-paper basket, which she offered to me as a gift. I thanked her profusely and she went back to her egg.

'Hello,' said ibb, who had been experimenting, Beeton-like, in the kitchen, 'what's in the bag?'

'You don't want to know.'

'Hmm,' replied ibb thoughtfully. 'Since I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, your response must be another way of saying: "I'm not going to tell you, so sod off." Is that correct?'

'More or less,' I replied, placing the bag in the broom cupboard. 'Is Gran around?'

'I don't think so.'

obb walked in a little later, reading a textbook entitled Personalities for Beginners.

'Hello, Thursday,' it said, 'a hedgehog and a tortoise came round to see you this afternoon.'

'What did they want?'

'They didn't say.'

'And Gran?'

'In the Outland. She said not to wait up for her. You look very tired; are you okay?'

It was true, I was tired, but I wasn't sure why. Stress? It's not every day that you have to fight swarms of grammasites and deal with Havisham's driving, Yahoos, Thraals, Big Martin's friends or head-in-a-bag plot devices. Maybe it was just the baby playing silly buggers with my hormones.

'What's for supper?' I asked, slumping into a chair and closing my eyes.

'I've been experimenting with alternative recipes,' said ibb, 'so we're having apples Benedict.'

' Apples Benedict?'

'Yes; it's like eggs Benedict but with—'

'I get the picture. Anything else?'

'Of course. You could try turnips à l’orange or macaroni custard; for pudding I've made anchovy trifle and herring fool. What will you have?'

'Beans on toast.'

I sighed. It was like being back home at Mother's.

I didn't dream that night. Landen was absent, but then so too was … was … what's-her-name. I slept soundly and missed the alarm. I woke up feeling terrible and just lay flat on my back, breathing deeply and trying to push away the clouds of nausea. There was a rap at the door.

'ibb!' I yelled. 'Can you get that?'

My head throbbed but there was no answer. I glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine and both of them would be out at St Tabularasa's practising whimsical asides or something. I hauled myself out of bed, steadied myself for a moment, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and went downstairs. There was no one there when I opened the door. I was just closing it when a small voice said:

'We're down here.'

It was a hedgehog and a tortoise. But the hedgehog wasn't like Mrs Tiggy-winkle, who was as tall as me; this hedgehog and tortoise were just the size they should have been.

'Thursday Next?' said the hedgehog.

'Yes,' I replied, 'what can I do for you?'

'You can stop poking your nose in where it's not wanted,' said the hedgehog haughtily, 'that's what you can do.'

'I don't understand.'

'Painted Jaguar?' suggested the tortoise. ' Can't curl, can swim . Ring any bells, Smart Alec?'

'Oh!' I said. 'You must be Stickly-prickly and Slow-and-Solid.'

'The same. And that little mnemonic you so kindly gave to the Painted Jaguar is going to cause us a few problems — the dopey feline will never forget that in a month of Sundays.'

I sighed. Living in the BookWorld was a great deal more complicated than I had imagined.

'Well, why don't you learn to swim or something?'

'Who, me?' said Stickly-prickly. 'Don't be absurd; whoever heard of a hedgehog swimming?'

'And you could learn to curl,' I added to Slow-and-Solid.

'Curl?' replied the tortoise indignantly. 'I don't think so, thank you very much.'

'Give it a go,' I persisted. 'Unlace your backplates a little and try and touch your toes.'

There was a pause. The hedgehog and tortoise looked at one another and giggled.

'Won't Painted Jaguar be surprised!' they chortled, thanked me, and left.

I closed the door, sat down and looked in the fridge, shrugged and ate a large portion of apples Benedict before having a long and very relaxing shower.

The corridors of the Well were as busy as the day before. Traders bustled with buyers, deals were done, orders taken, bargains struck. Every now and then I saw characters fading in and out as their trade took them from book to book. I looked at the shopfronts as I walked past, trying to guess how they did what they did. There were holesmiths, grammatacists, pace-setters, moodmongers, paginators — you name it. [10]

It was the junkfootnoterphone starting up again. I tried to shut it out but only succeeded in lowering the volume. As I walked along I noticed a familiar figure among the traders and plot speculators. He was dressed in his usual hunter/explorer garb, safari jacket and pith helmet with a revolver in a leather holster. It was Commander Bradshaw, star of thirty-four thrilling adventure stories for boys available in hardback at 7/6 each. Out of print since the thirties, Bradshaw entertained himself in his retirement by being something of an éminence grise at Jurisfiction. He had seen and done it all — or claimed he had.

'A hundred!' he exclaimed bitterly as I drew closer. 'Is that the best you can offer?'

The Action Sequence trader he was talking to shrugged.

'We don't get much call for lion attacks these days.'

'But it's terrifying, man, terrifying!' exclaimed Bradshaw. 'Real hot breath down the back of your neck stuff. Brighten up a chicklit no end, I should wager — make a change from parties and frocks, what?'

'A hundred and twenty, then. Take it or leave it.'

'Blood-sucker!' mumbled Bradshaw, taking the money and handing over a small glass globe with the lion attack, I presumed, safely freeze-dried within. He turned away from the trader and caught me looking at him. He quickly hid the cash and raised his pith helmet politely.

'Good morning!'

'Good morning,' I replied.

He waved a finger at me.

'It's Havisham's apprentice, isn't it? What was your name again?'

'Thursday Next.'

'Is it, by gum?' he exclaimed. 'Well I never.'

He was, I noticed, a good foot taller than the last time we had met. He now almost came up to my shoulder.

'You're much—' I began, then checked myself.

'—taller?' he guessed. 'Quite correct, girlie. Appreciate a woman who isn't trammelled by the conventions of good manners. Melanie — that's the wife, you know — she's pretty rude, too. "Trafford," she says — that's my name, Trafford — "Trafford," she says, "you are a worthless heap of elephant dung." Well, this was out of the blue — I had just returned home after a harrowing adventure in Central Africa where I was captured and nearly roasted on a spit. The sacred emerald of the Umpopo had been stolen by two Swedish prospectors and—'

'Commander Bradshaw,' I interrupted, desperate to stop him recounting one of his highly unlikely adventures, 'have you seen Miss Havisham this morning?'

'Quite right to interrupt me,' he said cheerfully. 'Appreciate a woman who knows when to subtly tell a boring old fart to button his lip. You and Mrs Bradshaw have a lot in common. You must meet up some day.'

We walked down the busy corridor. [11]

I tapped my ears.

'Problems?' enquired Bradshaw.

'Yes,' I replied, 'I've got two gossiping Russians inside my head again.'

'Crossed line? Infernal contraptions. Have a word with Plum at JurisTech if it persists. I say,' he went on, lowering his voice and looking round furtively, 'you won't tell anyone about that lion attack sale, will you? If the story gets around that old Bradshaw is cashing in his Action Sequences, I'll never hear the last of it.'