The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [174]
“I thought of Love Among the Orphans. What do you think?”
By the end of the meal Mycroft had outlined several of his books to me, each one with a plot more lurid than the last. At the same time Joffy and Wilbur had come to blows in the garden, discussing the sanctity of peace and forgiveness amidst the thud of fists and the crunch of broken noses.
At midnight Mycroft took Polly in his arms and thanked us all for coming.
“I have spent my entire life in pursuit of scientific truth and enlightenment,” he announced grandly, “of answers to conundrums and unifying theories of everything. Perhaps I should have spent the time going out more. In fifty-four years neither Polly nor I have ever taken a holiday, so that is where we’re off to now.”
We walked into the garden, the family wishing Mycroft and Polly well on their travels. Outside the door of the workshop they stopped and looked at each other, then at all of us.
“Well, thanks for the party,” said Mycroft. “Pear soup followed by pear stew with pear sauce and finishing with bombe surprise—which was pear—was quite a treat. Unusual, but quite a treat. Look after MycroTech while I’m away, Wilbur, and thanks for all the meals, Wednesday. Right, that’s it,” concluded Mycroft. “We’re off. Toodle-oo.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” I said.
“Oh, we will!” he said, bidding us all goodbye again and disappearing into the workshop. Polly kissed us all, waved farewell and followed him, closing the door behind her.
“It won’t be the same without him and his daft projects, will it?” said Landen.
“No,” I replied. “It’s—”
There was a tingling sensation like an electrical storm in summer as a noiseless white light erupted from within the workshop and shone in pencil-thin beams from every crack and rivet hole, each speck of grime showing up on the dirty windows, every crack in the glass suddenly alive with a rainbow of colors. We winced and shielded our eyes, but no sooner had the light started than it had gone again, faded to nothing in a crackle of electricity. Landen and I exchanged looks and stepped forward. The door opened easily and we stood there, staring into the large and now very empty workshop. Every single piece of equipment had gone. Not a screw, not a bolt, not a washer.
“He isn’t just going to write romantic novels in his retirement,” observed Joffy, putting his head round the door.
“No,” I replied, “he most probably took it all so no one else would carry on with his work. Mycroft’s scruples were the equal of his intellect.”
My mother was sitting on an upturned wheelbarrow, her dodos clustered around her on the off chance of a marshmallow.
“They’re not coming back,” said my mother sadly. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, giving her a hug, “I know.”
7.
White Horse, Uffington, Picnics, for the Use of
We decided that “Parke-Laine-Next” was a bit of a mouthful, so I kept my surname and he kept his. I called myself “Ms.” instead of “Miss,” but nothing else changed. I liked being called his wife in the same way I liked calling Landen my husband. It felt sort of tingly. I had the same feeling when I stared at my wedding ring. They say you get used to it but I hoped that they were wrong. Marriage, like spinach and opera, was something I had never thought I would like. I changed my mind about opera when I was nine years old. My father took me to the first night of Madama Butterfly at Brescia in 1904. After the performance Dad cooked while Puccini regaled me with hilarious stories and signed my autograph book—from that day on I was a devoted fan. In the same way, it took being in love with Landen to make me change my mind about marriage. I found it exciting and exhilarating; two people, together, as one. It was where I was meant to be. I was happy; I was contented; I was fulfilled.
And spinach? Well, I’m still waiting.
THURSDAY NEXT,
Private Diaries
WHAT DO YOU THINK they’ll do?” asked Landen as we lay in bed, he with one hand resting gently on my stomach and the other wrapped tightly around me. The bedclothes had been thrown