Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

We surfed in on the pungent smell of washing detergent and overheated iron. The landscape was dazzling white and was without depth; my feet were firmly planted on the ground yet I could see nothing but white surrounding my shoes when I looked down, the same as the view above me and to either side. Miss Havisham, whose dirty dress seemed even more shabby than usual in the white surroundings, was looking around the lone inhabitants of this strange and empty world: five bold icons the size of garden sheds that stood neatly in a row like standing stones. There was a crude tub with a number sixty on it, an iron shape, a tumble-dryer shape, and a couple of others that I wasn’t too sure about. I touched the first icon, which felt warm to the touch and very comforting; they all seemed to be made of compressed cotton.

‘Iconographic representations of washing instructions,’ muttered Havisham as I put my trousers back on. ‘This could be tricky. How many other washing labels do you think there are?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘Several billions, certainly.’

‘I thought as much. We need to narrow our jump parameters, girl. I’m no expert when it comes to washing—what’s the least abundant form of garment that might have washing instructions?’

‘Dressing gown?’ I hazarded. ‘Ra-ra skirt? But does it have to be a label?’

Havisham raised an eyebrow so I carried on.

‘Washing machine instructions always carry these icons, explaining what they mean.’

‘Hmm,’ said Miss Havisham thoughtfully. ‘Do you have a washing machine?’

Fortunately, I did—and more fortunately still, it was one of the things that had survived the sideslip. I nodded excitedly.

‘Good. Now, more importantly, do you know the make and model?’

‘Hoover Electron 1000… No! 800 Deluxe—I think.’

‘Think? You think ? You’d better be sure, girl, or you and I will be nothing more than carved names on the Boojumorial! Now. Are you sure ?’

‘Yes,’ I said confidently. ‘Hoover Electron 800 Deluxe.’

She nodded, placed her hands on the tub icon and muttered to herself between clenched teeth. I took hold of her arm and after a moment or two, in which I could feel Miss Havisham shake with the effort, we had jumped out of the washing label and into the Hoover instructions.

‘ Don’tallow the drain hose to kink as this could stop the machine from emptying ,’ said a small man in a blue Hoover boiler suit standing next to a brand-new washing machine. We were standing in a sparkling clean washroom that was barely ten feet square. It had neither windows nor door—just a Belfast sink, a tiled floor, hot and cold inlet taps and a single plug on the wall. For furniture a bed was pushed against the corner and next to it were a chair, table and cupboard.

‘ Doremember that to start a programme you must pull out the programme control knob . Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m being read at the moment. I’ll be with you in a sec. If you have selected white nylon, minimum iron, delicate or …’

‘Thursday!’ said Miss Havisham, who suddenly seemed weak at the knees. ‘That took quite some—’

I just managed to catch her as she collapsed; I gently laid her down on the small truckle bed.

‘Miss Havisham? Are you okay?’

She closed her eyes and breathed slowly. The jump had worn her out.

I pulled the single blanket over her, sat on the edge of the low bed, pulled my hair tie out and rubbed my scalp.

‘… until the drum starts to rotate. Your machine will empty and spin to complete the programme … Hello!’ said the man in the boiler suit. ‘The name’s Cullards—I don’t often get visitors!’

I introduced myself and explained who Miss Havisham was.

‘Goodness!’ said Mr Cullards, scratching his shiny bald head and smiling impishly. ‘Jurisfiction, eh? You are off the beaten track. The only visitor I’ve had was… excuse me— Control setting “D”: whites economy, lightly soiled cotton or linen articles which are colour fast to boiling —was the time we had a new supplement regarding woollens—but that would have been six or seven months ago. Where does the time go?’

He seemed a cheerful enough chap. He thought for a moment and then said:

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

I thanked him and he put the kettle on.

‘So what’s the news?’ asked Mr Cullards, rinsing out his one and only cup. ‘Any idea when the new washing machines are due out?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I have no idea—’

‘I’m about ready to move on to something a bit more modern,’ continued Cullards, ‘I started on vacuum cleaner instructions but was promoted to Hoovermatic T5004, then transferred to the Electron 800 after twin-tub obsolescence. They asked me to take care of the 1100 Deluxe but I told them I’d sooner wait until the Logic 1300 came out.’

I looked around at the small room.

‘Don’t you ever get bored?’

‘Not at all!’ said Cullards, pouring the hot water into the teapot. ‘Once I’ve put in my ten years I’m eligible to apply for work in all domestic appliance instructions: food mixers, liquidisers, microwaves—who knows, if I work really hard I could make it into television or wireless. That’s the future for an ambitious manual worker. Milk and sugar?’

‘Please.’

He leaned closer.

‘Management have this idea that only young ‘uns should do Sound & Vision instructions but they’re wrong. Most of the kids in VCR manuals barely do six months in Walkmans before they’re transferred. It’s little wonder no one can understand them.’

‘I never thought of that before,’ I confessed.

We chatted for the next half-hour. He told me he had begun French and German classes so he could apply for work in multilingual instructions, then confided in me his fondest feelings for Tabitha Doehooke, who worked for Kenwood. We were just talking about the sociological implications of labour-saving devices within the kitchen and how they related to the women’s movement when Miss Havisham stirred awake, drank three cups of tea, ate the biscuit that Mr Cullards was reserving for his birthday next May, and announced that we should be on our way.

We said our goodbyes and Mr Cullards made me promise I would clean out the powder dispenser on my washing machine; in an unguarded moment I had let slip I had yet to do so, despite the machine being nearly three years old.

The short trip to the non-fiction section of the Great Library was an easy jump for Miss Havisham, and from there we fworped back into her dingy ballroom in Great Expectations , where the Cheshire cat and Harris Tweed were waiting for us, talking to Estella. The cat seemed quite relieved to see us both, but Harris simply scowled.

‘Estella!’ said Miss Havisham abruptly ‘ Please don’t talk to Mr Tweed.’

‘Yes, Miss Havisham,’ replied Estella meekly.

Havisham replaced her trainers with her less comfortable wedding shoes.

‘I have Pip waiting outside,’ said Estella slightly nervously. ‘If you will excuse me mentioning it—Ma’am is a paragraph late .’

‘Dickens can just flannel for a bit longer,’ replied Havisham. ‘I must finish with Miss Next.’

She turned to me with a grim look; I thought I’d better say something to soothe her—I hadn’t yet seen Havisham lose her temper ‘like Vesuvius’, as the Red Queen had so graphically described it, and I was in no hurry to do so.

‘Thank you for my rescue, ma’am,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’