The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [270]
“Oh,” I said, contemplating her stern features and trying to figure out what I had done wrong.
“You should have said something!” she said, taking another pace towards me.
“About the baby?” I stammered.
“No, idiot—about Cardenio!”
“Cardenio?”
There was a faint clank from the door as someone fiddled with the lock. Havisham’s arrival, it seemed, had been observed.
“It’ll be Chalk and Cheese,” I told her. “You’d better jump out of here.”
“Absolutely not!” replied Havisham. “We go together. You might be a complete and utter imbecile, but you are my responsibility. Trouble is, fourteen feet of concrete is slightly daunting—I’m going to have to read us out. Quick, pass me your travelbook!”
“They took it from me.”
The door opened and Schitt-Hawse entered; he was grinning fit to burst.
“Well, well,” he said, “lock up a bookjumper and another soon joins her!”
He took one look at Havisham’s old wedding dress and put two and two together.
“Goodness! Is that . . . Miss Havisham?”
As if in answer, Havisham whipped out her small pistol and fired it in his direction. Schitt-Hawse gave a yelp and leaped back out the door, which clanged shut.
“We need a book,” said Miss Havisham grimly. “Anything will do—even a pamphlet.”
“There’s nothing in here, Miss Havisham.”
She looked around.
“Are you sure? There must be something!”
“I’ve looked—there’s nothing!”
Miss Havisham raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down.
“Take off your trousers, girl—and don’t say ‘what?’ in that impudent manner. Do as you’re told.”
So I did, and Havisham turned the garment over in her fingers as she searched for something.
“There!” she cried triumphantly as the door opened and a hissing gas canister was lobbed in. I followed her gaze but she had found only—the washing label. I must have looked incredulous, for she said in an offended manner: “It’s enough for me!” and then repeated out loud: “Wash inside out, wash and dry separately, wash inside out, wash and dry separately . . .”
We surfed in on the pungent smell of washing detergent and overheated iron. The landscape was dazzling white and was without depth; my feet were firmly planted on ground, yet I could see nothing but white surrounding my shoes when I looked down, the same as the view above me and to either side. Miss Havisham, whose dirty dress seemed even more shabby than usual in the white surroundings, was looking around the lone inhabitants of this strange and empty world: five bold icons the size of garden sheds that stood neatly in a row like standing stones. There was a crude tub with the number 60 on it, an iron shape, a tumble-dryer shape and a couple of others that I wasn’t too sure about. I touched the first icon, which felt warm to the touch and very comforting; they all seemed to be made of compressed cotton.
“What were you saying about Cardenio?” I asked, still wondering why she was so angry.
“Yes, yes, Cardenio,” she replied crossly, examining the large washing icons with interest. “Just how likely was it for a pristine copy of a missing play to just pop up out of the blue like that?”
“You mean,” I said, the penny finally dropping, “it’s a Great Library copy?”
“Of course it’s a library copy. That fog-headed pantaloon Snell only just reported it, and we need your help to get it back—What are these big shape things?”
“Iconographic representations of washing instructions,” I told her as I put my trousers back on.
“Hmm,” responded Miss Havisham. “This could be tricky. We’re inside a washing label, but there are none of those in the library—we need to jump into a book which is. I can do it without text, but I need a target book to head for. Is there a book written about washing labels?”
“Probably,” I replied, “but I’ve no idea what it might be called.” I had an idea. “Does it have to be a book about washing labels?”
Havisham raised an eyebrow, so I carried on.
“Washing machine instructions always carry these icons, explaining what they mean.”
“Hmm,” said Miss Havisham thoughtfully.