The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [303]
The hefty tome consisted of five hundred questions, nearly all of them multiple choice. I noticed that the exam was self-invigilating; as soon as I opened the book a clock in the top left-hand corner started to count down from two hours. The questions were mostly about literature, which I had no problem with. Jurisfiction law was trickier and I would probably need to consult with Miss Havisham. I made a start and ten minutes later was pondering question forty-six: Which of the following poets never used the outlawed word majestic in their work? when there was a knock at the door accompanied by a peal of thunder.
I closed the exam book and opened the door. On the jetty were three ugly, old crones dressed in filthy rags. They had bony features, rough and warty skin, and they launched into a well-rehearsed act as soon as the door opened.
“When shall we three meet again?” said the first witch. “In Thurber, Wodehouse, or in Greene?”
“When the hurly-burly’s done,” added the second, “when the story’s thought and spun!”
There was a pause until the second witch nudged the third.
“That will be Eyre the set of sun,” she said quickly.
“Where the place?”
“Within the text.”
“There to meet with MsNext!”
They stopped talking and I stared, unsure of what I was meant to do.
“Thank you very much,” I replied, but the first witch snorted disparagingly and wedged her foot in the door as I tried to close it.
“Prophecies, kind lady?” she asked as the other two cackled hideously.
“I really don’t think so,” I answered, pushing her foot away, “perhaps another time.”
“All hail, MsNext! Hail to thee, citizen of Swindon!”
“Really, I’m sorry—and I’m out of change.”
“All hail, MsNext, hail to thee, full Jurisfiction agent, thou shalt be!”
“If you don’t go,” I began, starting to get annoyed, “I’ll—”
“All hail, MsNext, thou shalt be Bellman thereafter!”
“Sure I will. Go on, clear off, you imperfect speakers—bother someone else with your nonsense!”
“A shilling!” said the first. “And we shall tell you more—or less, as you please.”
I closed the door despite their grumbling and went back to my multiple choice. I’d only answered question forty-nine: Which of the following is not a gerund? when there was another knock at the door.
“Blast!” I muttered, getting up and striking my ankle on the table leg. It was the three witches again.
“I thought I told you—”
“Sixpence, then,” said the chief hag, putting out a bony hand.
“No,” I replied firmly, rubbing my ankle, “I never buy anything at the door.”
They all started up then: “Thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up—”
I shut the door again. I wasn’t superstitious and had far more important things to worry about. I had just sat down again, sipped at my tea and answered the next question: Who wrote Toad of Toad Hall? when there was another rap at the door.
“Right,” I said to myself, marching across the room, “I’ve had it with you three.”
I pulled open the door and said, “Listen here, hag, I’m really not interested, nor ever will be in your . . . Oh.”
I stared. Granny Next. If it had been Admiral Lord Nelson himself I don’t think I could have been more surprised.
“Gran!?!” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
She was dressed in her usual outfit of spectacular blue gingham, from her dress to her overcoat and even her hat, shoes and bag.
I hugged her. She smelt of Bodmin for Women. She hugged me in return in that sort of fragile way that very elderly people do. And she was elderly—108, at the last count.
“I have come to look after you, young Thursday,” she announced.
“Er—thank you, Gran,” I replied, wondering quite how she had got here.
“You’re going to have