Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘Please,’ said a voice close by, ‘draw me a sheep!’

I looked down to see a young boy of no more than ten. He had curly golden locks and stared at me with an intensity that was, to say the least, unnerving.

‘Please,’ he repeated, ‘draw me a sheep.’

‘You had better do as he asks,’ said a familiar voice close by. ‘Once he starts on you he’ll never let it go.’

It was Miss Havisham. I dutifully drew the best sheep I could and handed the result to the boy, who walked away, very satisfied with the result.

‘Welcome to Jurisfiction,’ said Miss Havisham, still limping slightly from her injury at Booktastic. ‘I won’t introduce you to everyone straight away but there are one or two people you should know.’

She took me by the arm and guided me towards a well-dressed lady who was attending to the servants as they laid out some snacks upon the table.

‘This is Mrs John Dashwood; she graciously allows us the use of her home. Mrs Dashwood, this is Miss Thursday Next—she is my new apprentice.’

I shook Mrs Dashwood’s delicately proffered hand and she smiled politely.

‘Welcome to Norland Park, Miss Next; you are fortunate indeed to have Miss Havisham as your teacher—she does not often take pupils. But tell me, as I am not so very conversant with contemporary fiction—what book are you from?’

‘I’m not from a book, Mrs Dashwood.’

Mrs Dashwood looked startled for a moment, then smiled even more politely, took my arm in hers, muttered a pleasantry to Miss Havisham about ‘getting acquainted’, and steered me off towards the tea table.

‘How do you find Norland, Miss Next?’

‘Very lovely, Mrs Dashwood.’

‘Can I offer you a Crumbobbilous cutlet?’ she asked in a more agitated manner, handing me a side plate and napkin and indicating the food.

‘Or some tea?’

‘No thank you.’

‘I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Next.’

‘You seem most anxious to do so.’

She glanced furtively to left and right and lowered her voice.

‘Does everyone out there think my husband and I are so very cruel, cutting the girls and their mother out of Henry Dashwood’s bequest?’

She looked at me so very intensely that I wanted to smile.

‘Well—’ I began.

‘Oh, I knew it!’ gasped Mrs Dashwood with a dramatic flourish. ‘I told John that we should reconsider—I expect out there we are burnt in effigy, reviled for our actions, damned for all time?’

‘Not at all,’ I said, attempting to console her. ‘Narratively speaking, without your actions there wouldn’t be much of a story.’

Mrs Dashwood took a handkerchief from her cuff and dried her eyes, which, to my mind, had not even the smallest tear in them.

‘You are so right, Miss Next. Thank you for your kind words. But if you hear anyone speaking ill of me please tell them that it was my husband’s decision—I tried to stop him, believe me!’

‘Of course,’ I said, reassuring her. I made my excuses and left to find Miss Havisham.

‘We call it Minor Character Syndrome,’ explained Miss Havisham after I rejoined her. ‘Quite common when an essentially minor character has a large consequential part. She and her husband have allowed us the use of this room ever since the trouble with Confusion and Conviviality . In return we make all Jane Austen books subject to our special protection; we don’t want anything like that to happen again. There is a satellite office in the basement of Elsinore Castle run by Mr Falstaff—that’s him over there.’

She pointed to an overweight man with a florid face who was enjoying a joke with a younger agent dressed in more contemporary clothes.

‘Who is he talking to?’

‘Vernham Deane; romantic lead in one of Daphne Farquitt’s novels. Mr Deane is a stalwart member of Jurisfiction so we don’t hold it against him—’

‘ Where is Havisham ?’ bellowed a voice like thunder. The doors burst open and a very dishevelled Red Queen hopped in. The whole room fell silent. All, that is, except Miss Havisham, who said in an unnecessarily provocative tone:

‘Bargain-hunting just doesn’t suit some people, now does it?’

The assembled Jurisfiction operatives, realising that all they were witnessing was another round in a long and very personal battle, carried on talking.

The Red Queen had a large and painful-looking black eye and two of her fingers were in a splint. The sales at Booktastic had not been kind to her.

‘What’s on your mind, Your Majesty?’ asked Havisham in an even tone.

‘Meddle in my affairs again,’ growled the Red Queen, ‘and I won’t be responsible for my actions!’

‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously, Your Majesty?’ said Havisham, always maintaining due regal respect. ‘It was only a set of Farquitts, after all!’

‘A boxed set!’ replied the Red Queen coldly. ‘You spitefully took the gift I planned to give to my own dear beloved husband. And do you know why?’

Miss Havisham pursed her lips and was silent.

‘ Because you can’t bear it that I’m happily married! ’

‘Rubbish!’ returned Miss Havisham angrily. ‘We beat you fair and square!’

‘Ladies and, er… ladies and majesties , please!’ I said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Do we have to argue here at Norland Park?’

‘Ah, yes!’ said the Red Queen ‘Do you know why we use Sense and Sensibility ? Why Miss Havisham insisted on it, in fact?’

‘Don’t believe this,’ murmured Miss Havisham, ‘it’s all poppycock. Her Majesty is a verb short of a sentence.’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ went on the Red Queen angrily. ‘Because in Sense and Sensibility there are no strong father or husband figures!’

Miss Havisham was silent.

‘Face the facts, Estella. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steels, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon nor Willoughby have a father to guide them! Aren’t you taking your hatred of men just a little too far?’

‘Deluded,’ replied Havisham, then added after a short pause: ‘Well then, Your Majesty , since we are in a questioning vein, just what is it, exactly , that you rule over?’

The Red Queen turned scarlet—which was tricky as she was quite red to begin with—and pulled a small duelling pistol from her pocket. Havisham was quick and also drew her weapon, and there they stood, quivering with rage, guns pointing at each other. Fortunately the sound of a bell tingling caught their attention and they both lowered their weapons.

‘The Bellman!’ hissed Miss Havisham as she took my arm and moved towards where a man dressed as a town crier stood on a low dais. ‘ Show time !’

The small group of people gathered around the crier, the Red Queen and Miss Havisham side by side, their argument seemingly forgotten.

The Bellman put down his bell and consulted a list of notes.

‘Is everyone here? Where’s the cat?’

‘I’m over here,’ purred the cat, sitting precariously atop one of the gold-framed mirrors.

‘Good. Okay, anyone missing?’

‘Shelley’s gone boating,’ said a voice at the back. ‘He’ll be back in an hour if the weather holds.’

‘Okay,’ continued the Bellman. ‘Jurisfiction meeting number 40,311 is now in session.’

He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted a clipboard.

‘Item one is bad news, I’m afraid.’

There was a respectful hush. He paused for a moment and picked his words carefully.

‘I think we will all have to come to the conclusion that David and Catnona aren’t coming back. It’s been eighteen sessions now and we have to assume that they’ve been… boojummed .’