The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [228]
“Hello, young Thursday!” said Gran, turning to me. “Let’s find somewhere quiet to have a chat!”
We walked off towards the church organ and sat on a pair of hard plastic chairs.
“What did you paint on his picture?” I asked her, and Gran smiled her sweetest smile.
“Something a bit controversial,” she confided, “yet supportive. I have worked with neanderthals in the past and know many of their ways and customs. How’s hubby?”
“Still eradicated,” I said glumly.
“Never mind,” said Gran seriously, touching my chin so I would look into her eyes. “Always there is hope. You’ll find, as I did, that it’s really very funny the way things turn out.”
“I know. Thanks, Gran.”
“Your mother will be a tower of strength—never be in any doubt of that.”
“She’s here if you want to see her.”
“No, no,” said Gran hurriedly, “I expect she’s a little busy. While we’re here,” she went on, changing the subject without drawing breath, “can you think of any books that might be included in the ‘ten most boring classics’? I’m about ready to go.”
“Gran!”
“Indulge me, young Thursday!”
I sighed.
“How about Paradise Lost?”
Gran let out a loud groan.
“Awful! I could hardly walk for a week afterwards—it’s enough to put anyone off religion for good!”
“Ivanhoe?”
“Pretty dull but redeemable in places. It isn’t in the top ten, I think.”
“Moby-Dick?”
“Excitement and action interspersed with mind-numbing dullness. Read it twice.”
“A la recherche du temps perdu?”
“English or French, its sheer tediousness is undiminished.”
“Pamela?”
“Ah! Now you’re talking. Struggled through that when a teenager. It might have had resonance in 1741, but today the only resonance it possesses is the snores that emanate from those deluded enough to attempt it.”
“How about A Pilgrim’s Progress?”
But Gran’s attention had wandered.
“You have visitors, my dear. Look over there past the stuffed squid inside the piano and just next to the Fiat 500 carved from frozen toothpaste.”
There were two people in ill-fitting dark suits who looked very out of place. They were clearly SpecOps but not Dedmen and Walken. It looked as though SO-5 had suffered another mishap. I asked Gran if she would be all right on her own and walked across to meet them. I found them looking dubiously at a flattened tuba on the ground entitled The Indivisible Thriceness of Death.
“What do you think?” I asked them.
“I don’t know,” began the first agent nervously. “I’m . . . I’m . . . not really up on art.”
“Even if you were, it wouldn’t help here,” I replied dryly. “SpecOps-5?”
“Yes, how did—”
He checked himself quickly and rummaged for a pair of dark glasses.
“I mean, no. Never heard of SpecOps, much less SpecOps-5. Don’t exist. Oh blast. I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid.”
“We’re looking for someone named Thursday Next,” said his partner in a very obvious whisper from the side of her mouth, adding, in case I didn’t get the message, “Official business.”
I sighed. Obviously, SO-5 were beginning to run out of volunteers. I wasn’t surprised.
“What happened to Dedmen and Walken?” I asked them.
“They were—” began the first agent but the second nudged him in the ribs and announced instead:
“Never heard of them.”
“I’m Thursday Next,” I told them, “and I think you’re in more danger than you realize. Where did they get you from? SO-14?”
They took their sunglasses off and looked at me nervously.
“I’m from SO-22,” said the first. “The name’s Lamme. This is Slorter; she’s from—”
“—SO-28,” said the woman. “Thank you, Blake, I can talk, you know—and let me handle this. You can’t open your mouth without putting your foot in it.”
Lamme sank into a sulky silence.
“SO-28? You’re an income tax assessor?