The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [168]
“Odd,” said Landen, hugging me again, “in a very nice kind of elated sort of way. . . . Who can I tell?”
“No one quite yet. Probably just as well—your mum would knit herself to death!”
“And what’s wrong with my mother’s knitting?” asked Landen, feigning indignation.
“Nothing,” I giggled, “but there is a limit to storage space.”
“At least the things she knits are recognizable,” he replied. “That jumper your mum gave me for my birthday—what does she think I am, a squid?”
I buried my face in his collar and held him close. He rubbed my back gently and we stood together for several minutes without talking.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked at last.
“Well,” I began, “we found Cardenio, I was shot dead by an SO-14 marksman, became a vanishing hitchhiker, saw Yorrick Kaine, suffered a few too many coincidences and knocked a neanderthal unconscious.”
“No puncture this time?”
“Two, actually—at the same time.”
“What was Kaine like?”
“Difficult to say. He arrived at Volescamper’s as we were leaving. Aren’t you even curious about the marksman?”
“Yorrick Kaine is giving a talk tonight about the economical realities of a Welsh free trade agreement—”
“Landen,” I said, “it’s my uncle’s party tonight. I promised Mum we’d be there.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“All right,” sighed Landen. “What was it like?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Are you going to ask me about the incident with SO-14 now?” My uncle Mycroft had announced his retirement. He was seventy-seven, and following the events of the Prose Portal and Polly’s imprisonment in “I wandered lonely as a cloud,” they had both decided that enough was enough. The Goliath Corporation had been offering Mycroft not one but two blank checks for him to resume work on a new Prose Portal, but Mycroft had steadfastly refused, maintaining that the Portal could not be replicated even if he had wanted to. We took my car up to Mum’s house and parked a little way up the road.
“I never thought of Mycroft retiring,” I said as we walked down the street.
“Me neither,” he replied. “What do you suppose he’ll do?”
“Watch Name That Fruit! most likely. He says that soaps and quiz shows are the ideal way to fade out.”
“He’s not far wrong,” added Landen. “After a few years of 65 Walrus Street, death might become something of a welcome distraction.”
We heaved open the garden gate and greeted the dodos, who all had a bright pink ribbon tied round their necks for the occasion. I offered them a few marshmallows and they pecked and plocked greedily at the proffered gifts. The front door was opened by Wilbur, who was one of Mycroft’s sons and had reached middle age well before his time. Landen thought he did it on purpose, as though he could somehow accelerate through the days of work and get to retirement and golf just that little bit sooner.
“Hello, Thursday!” he enthused, ushering us inside.
“Hi, Wilbers. All well?”
“I’m very well,” replied Wilbur, smiling benignly. “Hello, Landen—I read your latest book. It was a big improvement on the last one, I must say.”
“You’re very kind,” replied Landen dryly.
“Drink?”
He offered us both a glass, and I took mine eagerly. I had just got it to my lips when Landen took it out of my hands. I looked at him and he mouthed, “Baby.” Blast. Hadn’t thought of that.
“I was promoted, you know,” continued Wilbur, walking through the hall and towards the living room.
He paused to allow us to murmur a congratulatory sound before continuing: “Consolidated Useful Stuff always promote those within the company that show particular promise, and after ten years in pension fund management ConStuff felt I was ready to branch into something new and dynamic. I’m now Services Director at a subsidiary of theirs named MycroTech Developments.”
“But my goodness what a coincidence!” said Landen sarcastically. “Isn’t that Mycroft’s company?”
“Coincidental,” replied Wilbur forcefully, “as you say. Mr. Perkup—the CEO of Mycro Tech—told me it was