The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [256]
And there we were, in amongst the gravestones at the beginning of Great Expectations, the chill and dampness in the air, the fog drifting in from the sea. On the far side of the graveyard a small boy was crouched among the weathered stones, talking to himself as he stared at two gravestones set to one side. But there was someone else there. In fact, there were a group of people, digging away at an area just outside the churchyard walls. They were illuminated in the fading light by two electric lamps powered by a small generator that hummed to itself some distance away.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
“Okay,” hissed Havisham, not hearing me straightaway, “now we jump to wherever we want by—What did you say?”
I nodded in the direction of the group. One of their number pushed a wheelbarrow along a plank and dumped it onto a large heap of spoil.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Havisham, walking briskly toward the small group. “It’s Commander Bradshaw!”
I trotted after her and I soon saw that the digging was of an archaeological nature. Pegs were set in the ground and joined by lengths of string, delineating the area in which the volunteers were scraping with trowels, all trying to make as little noise as possible. Sitting on a folding safari seat was a man dressed like a big game hunter. He wore a safari suit and pith helmet and sported both a monocle and a large and bushy mustache. He was also barely three feet tall. When he got up from his chair, he was shorter.
“ ’pon my word, it’s the Havisham girlie!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You’re looking younger every time I see you!”
Miss Havisham thanked him and introduced me. Bradshaw shook me by the hand and welcomed me to Jurisfiction.
“What are you up to, Trafford?” asked Havisham.
“Archaeology for the Charles Dickens Foundation, m’girl. A few of their scholars are of the belief that Great Expectations began not in this churchyard but in Pip’s house when his parents were still alive. There is no manuscriptual evidence, so we thought we’d have a little dig around the environs and see if we could pick up any evidence of previously overwritten scenes.”
“Any luck?”
“We’ve struck a reworked idea that ended up in Our Mutual Friend, a few dirty limericks and an unintelligible margin squiggle—but nothing much.”
Havisham wished him well, and we said our goodbyes and left them to their dig.
“Is that unusual?”
“You’ll find around here that there is not much that is usual,” replied Havisham. “It’s what makes this job so enjoyable. Where did we get to?”
“We were going to jump into the pre-book backstory.”
“I remember. To jump forwards we have only to concentrate on the page number or, if you prefer, a specific event. To go backwards before the first page we have to think of negative page numbers or an event that we assume had happened before the book began.”
“How do I picture a negative page number?”
“Visualize something—an albatross, say.”
“Yes?”
“Okay, now take the albatross away.”
“Yes?”
“Now take another albatross away.”
“How can I? There are no albatrosses left!”
“Okay; imagine I have lent you an albatross to make up your seabird deficit. How many albatrosses have you now?”
“None.”
“Good. Now relax while I take my albatross back.”
I shivered as a coldness swept through me and for a fleeting moment an empty vaguely albatross-shaped void opened and closed in front of me. But the strange thing was, for that briefest moment I understood the principle involved—but then it was gone like a dream upon waking. I blinked and stared at Havisham.
“That,” she announced, “was a negative albatross. Now you try it—only use page numbers instead of albatrosses.”
I tried hard to picture a negative page number, but it didn’t work and I found myself in the garden of Satis House, watching two boys square up for a fight. Miss Havisham was soon beside me.