A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (62 page)

“Sorry,” muttered Bowden meekly.

Cordelia leaped to her feet.

“Good thinking, Next. We can tell everyone you have water retention or an eating disorder brought on by stress.” Her face fell. “No, that won't work.
The Toad
will see through it like a shot. Can't you get married really quickly to someone? What about to Bowden? Bowden, would you do the decent thing for the sake of SpecOps?”

“I'm seeing someone over at SpecOps-13,” replied Bowden hurriedly.

“Blast!” muttered Flakk. “Thursday, any ideas?”

But this was a part of Bowden I knew nothing about.

“You never told me you were seeing someone over at SO-13!”

“I don't have to tell you
everything.
”

“But I'm your partner, Bowden!”

“Well, you never told me about Miles.”

“Miles?” exclaimed Cordelia. “The oh-so-handsome-to-die-for Miles
Hawke?
”

“Thanks, Bowden.”

“Sorry.”

“That's
wonderful!
” exclaimed Cordelia, clapping her hands together. “A dazzling couple! ‘SpecOps wedding of the year!' This is worth soooooo much coverage! Does he know?”

“No. And you're not going to tell him. And what's more—
Bowden
—it might not even be his.”

“Which puts us back to square one again!” responded Cordelia in a huff. “Stay here, I'm going to fetch my guests. Bowden, don't let her out of your sight!”

And she was gone.

Bowden stared at me for a moment and then asked: “Do you really believe the baby is Landen's?”

“I'm hoping.”

“You're not married, Thurs. You might think you are, but you're not. I looked at the records. Landen Parke-Laine died in 1947.”

“
This
time he did. My father and I went—”

“You don't have a father, Thursday. There is no record of anyone on your birth certificate. I think maybe you should speak to one of the stressperts.”

“And end up doing comedy stand-up, arranging pebbles or counting blue cars? No, thanks.”

There was a pause.

“He
is
very handsome,” said Bowden.

“Who?”

“Miles Hawke, of course.”

“Oh. Yes, yes I know he is.”

“Very polite, very popular.”

“I know that.”

“A child without a father—”

“Bowden, I'm not in love with him and it isn't his baby— okay?”

“Okay, okay. Let's forget it.”

We sat there in silence for a bit. I played with a pencil and Bowden stared out of the window.

“What about the voices?”

“Bowden—!”

“Thursday, this is for your own good. You told me you heard them yourself, and officers Hurdyew, Tolkien and Lissning heard you talking and listening to someone in the upstairs corridor.”

“Well, the voices have stopped,” I said categorically. “ Nothing like that will
ever
happen again.
¹

“Oh shit.”
²

“What do you mean, ‘Oh shit'?”

“Nothing—just, well, that. I've got to use the ladies' room— would you excuse me?”

I left Bowden shaking his head sadly and was soon in the ladies'. I checked the stalls were empty and then said: “Miss Havisham, are you there?”
³

“You must understand, Miss Havisham, that where I come
from customs are different from your own. People curse here as a matter of course.”
⁴

“I'll be there directly, ma'am!”

I bit my lip and rushed out of the ladies', grabbed my Jurisfiction travelbook and my jacket and was heading back when—

“Thursday!” went a loud and strident voice that I knew could only be Flakk's. “I've got the winners outside in the corridor—!”

“I'm sorry, Cordelia, but I
have
to go to the loo.”

“Don't think I'm going to fall for
that
one again, do you?” she growled under her breath.

“It's true this time.”

“And the book?”

“I always read on the loo.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and I narrowed my eyes back.

“Very well,” she said finally, “but I'm coming with you.”

She smiled at the two lucky winners of her crazy competition, who were outside in the corridor. They smiled back through the half-glazed office door and we both trotted into the ladies'.

“Ten minutes,” she said to me as I locked myself in a cubicle. I opened the book and started to read:

“Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. ‘Dear, dear Norland!' said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there. . . .”

The small melamine cubicle started to evaporate, and in its

place was a large park, bathed in the light of a dying sun, the haze softening the shadows and making the house glow in the failing light. There was a light breeze and in front of the house a lone girl dressed in a Victorian dress, bonnet and shawl. She walked slowly, gazing fondly at the—

“Do you always read aloud in the toilet?” asked Cordelia from behind the door.

The images evaporated in a flash and I was back in the ladies'.

“Always,” I replied. “And if you don't leave me alone, I'll
never
be finished.”

“. . . when shall I cease to regret you!—when learn to feel a home elsewhere?—Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you know more!—And you, ye well known trees!—But you will continue . . .”

The house came back again, the young woman talking quietly, matching her words to mine as I drifted into the book. I was now sitting not on a hard SpecOps standard toilet seat but a white-painted wrought-iron garden bench. I stopped reading when I was certain I was completely within
Sense and Sensibility
and listened to Marianne as she finished her speech:

“. . . and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade!—But who will remain to enjoy you?”

She sighed dramatically, clasped her hands to her breast and sobbed quietly for a moment or two. Then she took one long look at the large white-painted house and turned to face me.

“Hello!” she said in a friendly voice. “I haven't seen you around here before. Would you be working for Juris-thingummy-whatsit?”

“Don't we have to be careful as to what we say?” I managed to utter, looking around nervously.

“Goodness me
no!
” exclaimed Marianne with a delightful giggle. “The chapter is over, and besides, this book is written in the
third person.
We are free to do what we please until tomorrow morning, when we depart for Devon. The next two chapters are heavy with exposition—I hardly have anything to do, and I say even less! You look confused, poor thing! Have you been into a book before?”

“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
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 intensely 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 tremendously—do you think it shows?”

“I think it shows a great deal, Miss Dashwood.”

“Call me Marianne, if it pleases you.”

She stopped and thought for a moment, smiled politely, looked over her shoulder and then said:

“May I be so bold as to ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

She sat on the seat with me and stared into my eyes.

“Please, I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask when
your
own book is set.”

“I'm not a bookperson, 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: 1985. She was pleased to hear this and 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 favors 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 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.

Boojum:
Term used to describe the total annihilation of a word/ line/character/subplot/book/series. Complete and irreversible, the nature of a boojum is still the subject of some heated speculation. Some past members of Jurisfiction theorize that a Boojum might be a gateway to an “antilibrary” somewhere beyond the “ imagination horizon.” It is possible that the semimythical
Snark
may hold the key to decipher what is, at present, a mystery.

Bowdlerizers:
A group of fanatics who attempt to excise obscenity and profanity from all texts. Named after Thomas Bowdler, who attempted to make Shakespeare “family reading” by cutting lines from the plays, believing by so doing that “the transcendental genius of the poet would undoubtedly shine with greater luster.” Bowdler died in 1825, but his torch is still carried, illegally, by active cells eager to complete and extend his unfinished work at any cost. Attempts to infiltrate the Bowdlerizers have so far met with no success.

UNITARY AUTHORITY OF WARRINGTON CAT
,
The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library
(glossary)

I
WATCHED
M
ARIANNE
until she was no longer in sight and then, realizing that her
“remain to enjoy you”
line was the
last
of Chapter Five and Chapter Six begins with the Dashwoods already embarked on their journey, I decided to wait and see what a chapter ending looks 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 wood pigeon 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 reply 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 that, the occasional church spire. Outside the front door there was a Bugatti 35B motorcar 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 moldings, 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—

“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 and once more dressed in her rotted wedding robes. “I won't introduce you to everyone straightaway, but there are one or two people you should know.”

She took me by the arm and guided me towards a conservatively dressed lady who was attending to the servants as they laid out some food 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 clearly agitated manner, handing me a sideplate 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
seriously that I wanted to smile.

“Well,” I began—

“Oh I knew it!” gasped Mrs. Dashwood. She pressed the
back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “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, as far as I could see, 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 and 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 a matter of 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 in conversation with another agent. They both laughed uproariously at something Falstaff had said.

“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 disheveled Red Queen hopped
in. The whole room fell silent. Except, that is, for Miss Havisham, who said in an unnecessarily provocative tone:

“Bargain hunting just doesn't suit some people, now does it?”

The assembled Jurisfiction operatives, realizing 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!”

I shuffled uncomfortably and wanted to move away from this embarrassing confrontation. But since I thought
someone
should be on hand to separate them if there was a fight, I remained where I was.

“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 deliberately 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, Havisham. Neither the Dashwoods, the Steeles, the Ferrar brothers, Eliza Brandon
or
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 dueling 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.
“Showtime!”

The small group of people gathered around the crier; the Red Queen and Miss Havisham stood side by side, their argument seemingly forgotten. I looked around at the odd assortment of characters and wondered quite what I was doing here. Still, if I was to learn how to travel in books, I would have to know more. I listened attentively.

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

“Is everyone here? Where's the Cat?”

“I'm over there,” 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.”

“O-kay,” continued the Bellman. “Jurisfiction session number 40311 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 Catriona aren't coming back. It's been eighteen sessions now, and we have to assume that they've been . . .
boojummed.
”

There was a reflective pause.

“We remember David and Catriona Balfour as friends, colleagues, worthy members of our calling, protagonists in
Kidnapped
and
Catriona
and for all the booksploring they did— especially finding a way into Barchester, for which we will always be grateful. I ask for a minute's silence. To the Balfours!”