Lost in a Good Book

not a standard book jump. Are you paying attention?’

‘Yes, Miss Havisham.’

‘Good. I’ve no desire to go through this more than once. First, read us into the book.’

I did as she bade—making quite sure I had hold of the bag this time—and there we were, in among the gravestones on the opening page of Great Expectations, the chill and dampness in the air, the fog drifting in from the sea. On the far side of the graveyard a small boy was crouching among the weathered stones, talking to himself as he stared at two gravestones set to one side. But there was someone else there. In fact, there was a group of people, digging away at an area just outside the churchyard walls on the opposite side to the boy, illuminated in the fading light by two powerful electric lights fed by a small generator that hummed to itself some distance away.

‘Who are they?’ I whispered.

‘Okay,’ hissed Havisham, not hearing me straight away, ‘now we jump to wherever we want by… What did you say?’

I nodded in the direction of the group. One of their number pushed a wheelbarrow along a plank and dumped its contents on to a large pile of spoil.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Miss Havisham, walking briskly towards the small group. ‘It’s Commander Bradshaw!’

I trotted after her, and I soon saw that the digging was of an archaeological nature. Pegs were set in the ground and joined by lengths of string, delineating the area in which the volunteers were scraping with trowels, all trying to make as little noise as possible. Sitting on a folding safari seat was a man dressed like a big-game hunter. He wore a safari suit, pith helmet and sported both a monocle and a large and bushy moustache. He was also barely three feet tall. When he got up from his chair, he was shorter.

‘ ‘Pon my word, it’s the Havisham girlie!’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Estella, you’re looking younger every time I see you!’

Miss Havisham thanked him and introduced me. Bradshaw shook me by the hand and welcomed me to Jurisfiction.

‘What are you up to, Trafford?’ asked Havisham.

‘Archaeology for the Charles Dickens Foundation, m’girl. A few of their scholars are of the belief that Great Expectations began not in this churchyard but in Pip’s house when his parents were still about. There is no manuscriptual evidence so we thought we’d have a little dig around the environs and see if we could pick up any evidence of previously overwritten scenes.’

‘Any luck?’

‘We’ve struck a reworked idea that ended up in Our Mutual Friend, a few dirty limericks and an unintelligible margin squiggle—but nothing much.’

Havisham wished him well; we said our goodbyes and left them to their dig.

‘Is that unusual?’

‘You’ll find around here that there is not much that is usual,’ replied Havisham. ‘It’s what makes this job such fun. Where did we get to?’

‘We were going to jump into the pre-book back-story.’

‘I remember. To jump forward we have only to concentrate on the page numbers, or, if you prefer, a specific event. To go backward before the first page we have to think of negative page numbers or an event that we assume happened before the book began.’

‘How do I picture a negative page number?’

‘Visualise something—an albatross, say.’

‘Yes?’

‘Okay, now take the albatross away.’

‘Yes?’

‘Now take another albatross away.’

‘How can I? There are no albatrosses left!’

‘Okay; imagine I have lent you an albatross to make up your seabird deficit. How many albatrosses have you now?’

‘None.’

‘Good. Now relax while I take my albatross back.’

I shivered as a coldness swept through me and for a fleeting moment an empty, vaguely albatross-shaped void opened and closed in front of me. But the strange thing was, for that briefest moment I understood the principle involved—but then it was gone like a dream upon waking. I blinked and stared at Havisham.

‘That,’ she announced, ‘was a negative albatross. Now you try it—only use page numbers instead of albatrosses.’

I tried hard to picture a negative page number but it didn’t work and I found myself in the garden of Satis House, watching two boys square up for a fight. Miss Havisham was soon beside me.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m trying—’

‘You are not, my girl There are two sorts of people in this world, doers and tryers. You are the latter and I am trying to make you the former. Now concentrate, girl!’

So I had another attempt and this time found myself in a curious tableau resembling the graveyard in Chapter 1 but with the graves, wall and church little more than cardboard cut-outs. The two featured characters, Magwitch and Pip, were also very two-dimensional and as still as statues—except that their eyes swivelled to look at me as I jumped in.

‘Oi,’ hissed Magwitch between clenched teeth, not moving a muscle, ‘piss off.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Piss off!’ repeated Magwitch, this time more angrily.

I was just pondering all this when Havisham caught up with me, grabbed my hand and jumped to where we were meant to be.

‘What was that?’ I asked.

‘The frontispiece. You’re not a natural at this, are you?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Never mind,’ said Miss Havisham in a kindlier tone, ‘we’ll make a Prose Resource Operative out of you yet.’

We walked down a jetty to where Havisham’s boat was moored. But it wasn’t any old boat. It was a polished-wood-and-gleaming-chrome Riva. I stepped aboard the motor launch and stowed the gear.

‘Cast off!’ yelled Havisham, who seemed to take on a new lease of life when confronted by anything with a powerful engine. I did as I was told. Miss Havisham started the twin Chevrolet petrol engines and to a throaty growl from the exhausts we made our way into the darkness of the Thames. I pulled two cloaks from the bag, donned one and took the other to Miss Havisham, who was standing at the helm, the wind blowing through her grey hair and tugging at her tattered veil.

‘Isn’t this a bit anachronistic?’ I asked.

‘Officially yes,’ replied Havisham, weaving to avoid a small jollyboat, ‘but we’re actually in the back-story minus one day, so I could have brought in a squadron of hurricanes and the entire Ringling Brothers circus and no one would be any the wiser. If we had to do this anytime during the book then we’d be stuck with whatever was available—which can be a nuisance.’

We were moving upriver against a quickening tide. It was gone midnight, and I was glad of the cloak. Billows of fog blew in from the sea and gathered in great banks that caused Miss Havisham to slow down, within twenty minutes the fog had closed in and we were alone in the cold and clammy darkness. Miss Havisham shut down the engines, doused the navigation lights and we gently drifted in with the tide.

‘Sandwich and soup?’ she asked, peering in the picnic basket.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Do you want my Wagon Wheel?’