Lost in a Good Book

‘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.’

Miss Havisham picked up the pen and paused before signing.

‘We’ll need my boat, Mr Wemmick,’ she said, lowering her voice.

‘I’ll Footnoterphone ahead, Miss H,’ said Wemmick, winking broadly. ‘You’ll find it on the jetty.’

‘For a man you are not bad at all, Mr Wemmick!’ said Miss Havisham. ‘Thursday, gather up the equipment!’

‘What now?’ I asked, weighed down by the large canvas bag.

‘Dickens is within walking distance,’ explained Havisham, ‘but it’s better practice for you if you jump us straight there—there are over fifty thousand miles of shelf space.’

‘Ah—okay, I know how to do that,’ I muttered, putting down the bag, taking out my travel book and flicking to the passage about the library.

‘Hold on to me as you jump and think Dickens as you read.’

So I did, and within a trice we were at the right place in the library.

‘How was that?’ I asked quite proudly.

‘Not bad,’ said Havisham. ‘But you forgot the bag.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll wait while you get it.’

So I read myself back to the lobby, retrieved the bag to a few friendly jibes from Deane, and returned—but by accident to a series of adventuresome books for plucky girls by someone named Charles Pickens, so I read the library passage again and was soon with Miss Havisham.

‘This is the outings book,’ she said without looking up. ‘Name, destination, date, time—I’ve filled it in already. Are you armed?’

‘Always—do you expect any trouble?’

Miss Havisham drew out her small pistol, released the twin barrels, pivoted it upward and gave me one of her more serious stares.

‘I always expect trouble, Thursday. I was on HPD—Heathcliff Protection Duty—in Wuthering Heights for two years and, believe me, the ProCaths tried everything—I personally saved him from assassination eight times.’

She extracted a spent cartridge, replaced it with a live one and locked the barrels back into place.

‘But Great Expectations? Where’s the danger there?’

She rolled up her sleeve and showed me a livid scar on her forearm.

‘Things can turn pretty ugly even in Toytown,’ she explained. ‘Believe me, Larry is no lamb—I was lucky to escape with my life.’

I must have been looking slightly nervous because she went on:

‘Everything okay? You can bale out whenever you want, you know. Say the word and you’ll be back in Swindon before you can say “Mrs Hubbard”.’

She looked at me intensely and I thought of the baby. I’d survived the sales with no ill effects—how hard could ‘footling’ with the back-story of a Dickens novel be? Besides, I needed all the practice I could get.

‘Ready when you are, Miss Havisham.’

She nodded, rolled down her sleeve again, pulled Great Expectations from the bookshelf and opened it on one of the reading desks.

‘We need to go in before the story really begins so this is