Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

He poured some tea for us both before continuing.

‘He was trained during the days when cadets were cast into The Pilgrim’s Progress and told to make their own way out. He thinks all us young ‘uns are soft as soap. Don’t you, Tweed?’

Harris Tweed had approached with an empty coffee cup.

‘What are you blathering about, Deane?’ he asked, scowling like thunder.

‘I was telling Miss Next here that you think we’re all a bit soft.’

Harris took a step closer, glared at Deane and then fixed me with a steady eye.

‘Has Havisham mentioned the Well of Lost Plots to you?’ he asked.

‘The cat mentioned it. Unpublished books, I think he said.’

‘Not just unpublished. The Well of Lost Plots is where vague ideas ferment into sketchy plans. This is the Notion Nursery. The Word Womb. Go down there and you’ll see outlines coalescing on the shelves like so many primordial life forms. The spirits of roughly sketched characters flit about the corridors in search of plot and dialogue before they are woven into the story. If they get lucky, the book finds a publisher and rises into the Great Library above.’

‘And if they’re unlucky?’

‘They stay in the basement. But there’s more. Below the Well of Lost Plots is another basement. Sub-basement twenty-seven. No one talks of it much. It’s where deleted characters, poor plot devices, half-baked ideas and corrupt Jurisfiction agents go to spend a painful eternity. Just remember that.’

He looked at Deane, gave another scowl, filled up his coffee cup and left. As soon as he was out of earshot, Vernham turned to me and said:

‘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.’