The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [230]
22.
Travels with My Father
The first time I went traveling with my father was when I was much younger. We attended the opening night of King Lear at the Globe in 1602. The place was dirty and smelly and slightly rowdy, but for all that, not unlike a lot of other opening nights I had attended. We bumped into someone named Bendix Scintilla, who was, like my father, a lonely traveler in time. He said he hung around in Elizabethan England to avoid ChronoGuard patrols. Dad said later that Scintilla had been a truly great fighter for the cause but his drive had left him when they eradicated his best friend and partner. I knew how he felt but did not do as he did.
THURSDAY NEXT,
Private Diaries
DAD TURNED UP for breakfast. I was just flicking through that morning’s copy of The Toad at the kitchen table when he arrived. The big news story was the volte-face in Yorrick Kaine’s fortunes. From being a sad politically dead no-hoper he was polling ahead of the ruling Teafurst party. The power of Shakespeare. The world suddenly stopped, the picture on the TV froze up and the sound became a dull hum, the same tone and pitch as it was the moment Dad arrived. He had the power to stop the clock like this; time ground to a halt when he visited me. It was a hard-won skill—for him there was no return to normality.
“Hello, Dad,” I said brightly. “How are things?”
“Well, it depends,” he replied. “Have you heard of Winston Churchill yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Blast!” he muttered, sitting down and raising his eyebrows at the newspaper headline: Chimp Merely Pet, Claims Croquet Supremo. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s well. Is the world still going to end next week?”
“Looks like it. Does she ever talk about me?”
“All the time. I got this report from SpecOps forensics.”
“Hmm,” said my father, donning his glasses and reading the report carefully. “Carboxy-methyl-cellulose, phenylalanine and hydrocarbons. Animal fat? Doesn’t make any sense at all!”
He handed back the report.
“I don’t get it,” he said quietly, sucking the end of his spectacles. “That cyclist lived and the world still ended. Maybe it’s not him. Trouble is, nothing else happened at that particular time and place.”
“Yes it did,” I said in a sober voice.
“What?”
I picked up the evidence bag with the pink goo inside.
“You gave me this.”
Dad snapped his fingers.
“That must be it. My handing you the bag of slime was the key event and not the death of the cyclist. Did you tell anyone where that pink goo came from?”
“No one.”
He thought for a bit.
“Well,” he said at last, “unlike hindsight, avoiding Armageddons is not an exact science. We may have to let events lead us for a while until we can figure it out. How is everything else going?”
“Goliath eradicated Landen,” I replied glumly.
“Who?”
“My husband.”
“Oh!” he said, suddenly thoughtful. “Any particular reason?”
“Goliath want Jack Schitt out of ‘The Raven.’ ”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “The old blackmail routine. I’m sorry to hear that, sweetpea. But listen, don’t be downhearted. We have a saying about reactualizing eradicatees that goes like this: ‘No one is truly dead until they are forgotten.’ ”
“So,” I answered slowly, “if I forgot about him, then he would be gone?”
“Precisely,” remarked my father, helping himself to some coffee. “That’s why I’m having so much trouble reactualizing Churchill and Nelson—I have to find someone who remembers them as they were so I can figure out where things might have gone awry.” He laughed for a moment and then got up.
“Well, get dressed, we’re leaving!”
“Where to?”
“Where?” he exclaimed. “Why, to get your husband back, of course!”
This was good news. I quickly dashed into the bedroom to pull some clothes on while Dad read the paper and had a bowl of cereal.
“Schitt-Hawse told me they had the summer of 1947 sewn up so tight not even a transtemporal