Lost in a good book (34 page)

“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.

25.
Roll Call at Jurisfiction

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?”