The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [272]
“I never thought of that before,” I confessed.
We chatted for the next half hour. He told me he had begun French and German classes so he could apply for work in multilingual instructions, then confided in me his fondest feelings for Tabitha Doehooke, who worked for Kenwood Mixers. We were just talking about the sociological implications of labor-saving devices within the kitchen and how they related to the women’s movement when Miss Havisham stirred.
“Compeyson—!” she muttered without waking. “You lying, stealing, thieving, hound of a . . .”
“Miss Havisham?” I asked.
She stopped mumbling and opened her eyes.
“Next, my girl,” she gasped. “I need—”
“Yes?” I asked, leaning closer.
“—a cup of tea.”
“Can do!” said Mr. Cullards cheerfully, pouring out a fresh cup. Miss Havisham sat up, drank three cups of tea and also ate the biscuit that Cullards was reserving for his birthday next May. I introduced the Hoover instructionalist, and Miss Havisham nodded politely before announcing we would have to be off.
We said our goodbyes and Mr. Cullards made me promise I would clean out the powder dispenser on my washer; in an unguarded moment I had let slip I had yet to do so, despite the washer’s being nearly three years old.
The short trip to the nonfiction section of the Great Library was an easy jump for Miss Havisham, and from there we fworped back into her dingy ballroom in Great Expectations, where the Cheshire Cat and Harris Tweed were waiting for us, talking to Estella. The Cat seemed quite relieved to see us both, but Harris simply scowled.
“Estella!” said Miss Havisham abruptly. “Please don’t talk to Mr. Tweed.”
“Yes, Miss Havisham,” replied Estella meekly.
Havisham replaced her trainers with the less comfortable wedding shoes.
“I have Pip waiting outside,” said Estella slightly nervously. “If you will excuse me mentioning it—ma’am is a paragraph late.”
“Dickens can just flannel for a bit longer,” replied Havisham. “I must finish with Miss Next.”
She turned to me with a grim look; I thought I’d better say something to soothe her—I hadn’t yet seen Havisham lose her temper and I was in no hurry to do so.
“Thank you for my rescue, ma’am,” I said quickly. “I’m very grateful to you.”
“Humph!” replied Miss Havisham. “Don’t expect salvation from me every time you get yourself into a jam, my girl. Now, what’s all this about a baby?”
The Cheshire Cat, sensing trouble, vanished abruptly on the pretext of some “cataloguing,” and even Tweed mumbled something about checking Lorna Doone for grammasites and went too.
“Well?” asked Havisham again, peering at me quite intensely.
I didn’t feel quite as frightened of her as I once did, so I thought I should come clean and tell her everything. I told her all about Landen’s eradication, the offer from Goliath, Jack Schitt in “The Raven” and even Mycroft’s Prose Portal. Just for good measure I finished up by telling her how much I was in love with Landen and how I’d do anything to get him back.
“For love? Pah!” she answered, dismissing Estella with a wave of her hand in case the young woman got any odd ideas. “And what, in your tragically limited experience, is that?”
She didn’t seem to be losing her temper, so, emboldened, I continued: “I think you know, ma’am. You were in love once, I believe?”
“Stuff and nonsense, girl!”
“Isn’t the pain you feel now the equal to the love you felt then?”
“You’re coming perilously close to contravening my Rule Two!”
“I’ll tell you what love is,” I told her. “It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter!”
“That was quite good,” said Havisham, looking at me curiously. “Could I use that? Dickens won’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“I think,” said Miss Havisham after a few moments of deliberation, “that I shall categorize your complex marital question under widowed, which sits with me well enough. Upon reflection—and quite possibly against my better judgment— you may stay as