Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘I went into Jane Eyre once.’

Marianne frowned overdramatically.

‘Poor, dear, sweet Jane! I would so hate to be a first-person character! Always on your guard, always having people reading your thoughts! Here we do what we are told but think what we wish. It is a much happier circumstance, believe me!’

‘What do you know about Jurisfiction?’ I asked.

‘They will be arriving shortly,’ she explained. ‘Mrs Dashwood might be beastly to Mama but she understands self-preservation. We wouldn’t want to suffer the same tragic fate as Confusion and Conviviality , now, would we?’

‘Is that Austen?’ I queried. ‘I’ve not even heard of it!’

Marianne sat down next to me and rested her hand on my arm.

‘Mama said it was a socialist collective ,’ she confided in a hoarse whisper. ‘There was a revolution—they took over the entire book and decided to run it on the principle of every character having an equal part, from the duchess to the cobbler! I ask you! Jurisfiction tried to save it, of course, but it was too far gone—not even Ambrose could do anything. The entire book was… boojummed !’

She said the last word so seriously that I would have laughed had she not been staring at me so intently with her dark brown eyes.

‘How I do talk!’ she said at last, jumping up, clapping her hands and doing a twirl on the lawn. ‘… and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade. …’

She stopped and checked herself, placed her hand over her mouth and nose and uttered an embarrassed girlish giggle.

‘What a loon!’ she muttered. ‘I’ve said that already! Farewell, Miss… Miss… I beg your pardon but I don’t know your name!’

‘It’s Thursday—Thursday Next.’

‘What a strange name!’

She gave a small curtsy in a half-joking way.

‘I am Marianne Dashwood and I welcome you, Miss Next, to Sense and Sensibility .’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure I shall enjoy it here.’

‘I’m sure you shall. We all enjoy it a great deal—do you think it shows?’

‘I think it shows a great deal, Miss Dashwood.’

‘Call me Marianne, if it pleases you. May I be so bold as to ask you a favour?’

‘Of course.’

She came closer and sat on the seat with me, holding my hand and staring into my eyes intently.

‘Please, I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask when your own book is set?’

‘I’m not a book person, Miss Dashwood—I’m from the real world.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Please excuse me; I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t real or anything. In that case, when, might I ask, is your own world set?’

I smiled at her strange logic and told her. She leaned closer still.

‘Please excuse the impertinence, but would you bring something back next time you come?’

‘Such as?’

‘Mintolas. I simply adore Mintolas. You’ve heard of them, of course? A bit like Munchies but minty—and, if it’s no trouble, a few pairs of nylon tights. And some AA batteries; a dozen would be perfect.’

‘Sure. Anything else?’

Marianne thought for a moment.

‘Elinor would so hate me asking favours from a stranger, but I happen to know she has an inordinate fondness for Marmite—and some real coffee for Mama.’

I told her I would do what I could. She smiled again, thanked me profusely, pulled on a leather flying helmet and goggles that she had secreted within her shawl, held my hand for a moment and then was gone, running across the lawn.

I watched Marianne until she was no longer in sight and then, realising that her ‘… remain to enjoy you line was the last of Chapter 5, and that Chapter 6 begins with the Dashwoods already embarked on their journey, I decided to wait and see what a chapter ending looked like. If I had expected a thunderclap or something equally dramatic, I was to be disappointed. Nothing happened. The leaves in the trees gently rustled, the occasional sound of a woodpigeon reached my ears, and before me a red squirrel hopped across the grass. I heard an engine start up and a few minutes later a biplane rose from the meadow behind the rhododendrons, circled the house twice and then headed off towards the setting sun. I rose and walked across the finely manicured lawn, nodded at a gardener, who tipped his head in response, and made my way to the front door. Norland was never described in that much detail in Sense and Sensibility , but it was every bit as impressive as I thought it would be. The house was located within a broad sweeping parkland which was occasionally punctuated by mature oak trees. In the distance I could see only woods, and beyond them the occasional church spire. Outside the front door there was a Bugatti 356 motor-car and a huge white charger saddled for battle, munching idly on some grass. A large white dog was attached to the saddle by a length of string, and it had managed to wrap itself three times around a tree.

I trotted up the steps and tugged on the bell-pull. Within a few minutes a uniformed footman answered and looked at me blankly.

‘Thursday Next,’ I said. ‘Here for Jurisfiction—Miss Havisham.’ The footman, who had large bulging eyes and a curved head like a frog, opened the door and announced me simply by rearranging the words a bit:

‘Miss Havisham, Thursday Next—here for Jurisfiction!’

I stepped inside and frowned at the empty hall, wondering quite who the footman thought he was actually announcing me to. I turned to ask him where I should go but he bowed stiffly and walked—excruciatingly slowly, I thought—to the other side of the hall, where he opened a door and then stood back, staring at something above and behind me. I thanked him, stepped in and found myself in the central ballroom of the house. The room was painted in white and pale blue and the walls, where not decorated with delicate plaster mouldings, were hung with lavish gold-framed mirrors. Above me the glazed ceiling let in the evening light, but already I could see servants preparing candelabra.

It had been a long time since the Jurisfiction offices had been used as a ballroom; the floor space was liberally covered with sofas, tables, filing cabinets and desks piled high with paperwork. To one side a table had been set up with coffee urns, and tasty snacks were arrayed upon delicate china. There were two dozen or so people milling about, sitting down, chatting or just staring vacantly into space. I could see Akrid Snell at the far side of the room, speaking into what looked like a small gramophone horn connected by a flexible brass tube to the floor. I tried to get his attention but at that moment—