Lost in a Good Book

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.’

There was a reflective pause.

‘We remember David and Catnona Balfour as friends, colleagues, worthy members of our calling, protagonists in Kidnapped and Catnona, 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!’

‘The Balfours!’ we all repeated. Then, heads bowed, we stood in silence. After a minute ticked by, the Bellman spoke again.

‘Now, I don’t want to sound disrespectful but what we learn from this is that you must always sign the outings book so we know where you are— particularly if you are exploring new routes. Don’t forget the ISBN numbers either—they weren’t introduced just for cataloguing, now, were they? Mr Bradshaw’s maps might have a traditionalist’s charm about them—’

‘Who’s Bradshaw?’ I asked.

‘Commander Bradshaw,’ explained Havisham, ‘retired now but a wonderful character—did most of the booksploring in the early days.’

‘—but they are old and full of errors,’ continued the Bellman. ‘New technology is here to be used, guys. Anyone who wants to attend a training course on how ISBN numbers relate to trans-book travel, see the cat for details.’

The Bellman looked around the room as if to reinforce the order, then unfolded a sheet of paper and adjusted his glasses.

‘Right. Item two. New recruit Thursday Next. Where are you?’

The assembled Prose Resource Operatives looked around the room before I waved a hand to get their attention.

‘There you are. Thursday is apprenticed to Miss Havisham; I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming her to our little band.’

‘Didn’t like the way Jane Eyre turned out?’ said a voice from the back. There was a hush and everyone watched as a middle-aged man stood up and walked up to the Bellman’s dais

‘Who’s that?’ I whispered.

‘Harris Tweed,’ replied Havisham. ‘Dangerous and arrogant but quite brilliant—for a man.’

‘Who approved her application?’

‘She didn’t apply, Harris—her appointment was a Quad Erat Demonstrandum. Her work within Jane Eyre ridding the book of the loathsome Hades is a good enough testimonial for me.’

‘But she altered the book!’ cried Tweed angrily. ‘Who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same again?’

‘I did what I did for the best,’ I said in a loud voice, something that startled Harris slightly—I had a feeling that no one really stood up to him.

‘If it wasn’t for Thursday we wouldn’t have a book,’ said the Bellman. ‘A full book with a different ending is better than half a book without.’

‘That’s not what the rules say, Bellman.’

Miss Havisham spoke up.

‘Truly competent literary detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr Tweed—you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps?’

‘It’s not that at all,’ protested Tweed, ‘but what if she were here for another reason altogether?’

‘I shall vouch for her!’ said Miss Havisham in a thunderous tone. ‘I call for a show of hands. If there is a majority amongst you who think my judgment poor, then put your hands up now and I will banish her back to where she belongs!’

She said it with such a show of fierce temper that I thought no one would raise their hands; in the event, only one did—Tweed himself, who, after reading the situation, judged that good grace was the best way in which to retire. He gave a wan half-smile, bowed and said:

‘I withdraw all objections.’

‘Good,’ said the Bellman as Tweed returned to his desk. ‘As I was saying—we welcome Miss Next to Jurisfiction and we don’t want any of those silly practical jokes we usually play on new recruits, okay?’

He looked sternly around the room before returning to his list.

‘Item three: there is an illegal PageRunner from Shakespeare so this is a priority red. Perp’s name is Feste; worked as a jester in Twelfth Night. Took flight after a debauched night with Sir Toby. Who wants to go after him?’

A hand went up in the crowd.