Lost in a Good Book

get him back—but I needed time to rest and recuperate and bring our child into the world with the minimum of fuss, bother and interruptions. I packed four tins of Moggilicious cat food, two packets of Mintolas, a large jar of Marmite and two dozen AA batteries into a large holdall along with a few changes of clothing, a picture of my family and the copy of Jane Eyre with the bullet lodged in the cover. I placed a sleepy and confused Pickwick and her egg into the holdall and zipped up the bag so that only her head stuck out. I then sat and waited on a chair in front of the door with a copy of Great Expectations on my lap. I wasn’t a natural book-jumper and without my travel book I was going to need the fear of capture to help catapult me through the boundaries of fiction.

I started to read at the first knock on the door and continued through the volley of shouts for me to open up, past the muffled thuds and the sound of splintered wood until finally, as the door fell in, I melted into the dingy interior of Great Expectations and Satis House.

Miss Havisham was slightly shocked when I explained what I needed, and even more shocked at the sight of Pickwick, but she consented to my request and cleared it with the Bellman—on the proviso that I’d continue with my training. I was hurriedly inducted into the Character Exchange Programme and given a secondary part in an unpublished book deep within the Well of Lost Plots—the woman I was replacing had for some time wanted to take a course in Drama at the Reading Academy of Dramatic Arts, so it suited her equally well. As I wandered down to Sub-basement six, Exchange Programme docket in hand made out to someone named Briggs, I felt more relaxed than I had for weeks. I found the correct book sandwiched between the first draft of an adventure in the Tasman seas and a vague notion of a comedy set in Bomber Command. I picked up the book, took it to one of the reading tables and quietly read myself into my new home.

I found myself on the banks of a reservoir somewhere in the Home Counties. It was summer and the air smelt warm and sweet after the wintry conditions back home. I was standing on a wooden jetty in front of a large and seemingly derelict flying boat, which rocked gently in the breeze, tugging on the mooring ropes. A woman had just stepped out of a door in the high-sided hull; she was holding a suitcase.

‘Hello!’ she shouted, running up and offering me a hand. ‘I’m Mary. You must be Thursday. My goodness! What’s that?’

‘A dodo. Her name’s Pickwick.’

‘I thought they were extinct.’

‘Not where I come from. Is this where I’m going to live?’ I was pointing at the shabby flying boat dubiously.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ smiled Mary proudly. ‘Isn’t she just the most beautiful thing ever? Short Sunderland, built in 1943 but last flew in ‘54. I’m mid-way converting her to a houseboat but don’t feel shy if you want to help out. Just keep the bilges pumped out and if you can run the number three engine once a month I’d be very grateful.’

‘Er—okay,’ I stammered.

‘Good. I’ve left a rough precis of the story taped to the fridge but don’t worry too much—since we’re not published you can do pretty much what you want. Any problems, ask Captain Nemo who lives on the Nautilus two boats down, and don’t worry, Jack might seem gruff to begin with but he has a heart of gold and if he asks you to drive his Austin Allegro, make sure you depress the clutch fully before changing gear. Did the Bellman supply you with all the necessary paperwork and fake IDs?’

I patted my pocket and she handed me a scrap of paper and a bunch of keys.

‘Good. This is my Footnoterphone number in case of emergencies, these are the keys to the flying boat and my BMW. If someone named Arnold calls, tell him he had his chance and he blew it. Any questions?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She smiled.

‘Then we’re done. You’ll like it here. It’s pretty odd. I’ll see you in about a year. So long!’

She gave a cheery wave and walked off up the dusty track. I looked across the lake at the faraway dinghies, then watched a pair of swans beating their wings furiously and pedalling the water to take off. I sat down on a rickety wooden seat and let Pickwick out of the bag. It wasn’t home but it looked pleasant enough. Landen’s reactualisation was in the uncharted future, along with Aornis’s and Goliath’s come-uppance—but all in good time. I would miss Mum, Dad, Joffy, Bowden, Victor and maybe even Cordelia. But it wasn’t all bad news—at least this way I wouldn’t have to do The Thursday Next Workout Video.

As my father said, it’s funny the way things turn out.

,

1

‘Thursday Next!’

2

‘Miss Next—hello’ Testing, testing One, two, three.’

3

‘If you’re busy, Miss Next, we can talk later.’

4

‘The name is Snell, Akrid Snell. Who was that disturbingly attractive woman in the tight pink sweater?’

5

‘Really? Is she married?’

6

‘Sorry. Should have said. I’m the defence attorney allocated to your case.’

7

‘Of course not! That’s our defence strategy in a nutshell. You are completely innocent. If we can convince the examining magistrate we can probably get a postponement.’