The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [341]
And he tingled his bell.
Libris stepped down from the dais and melted away before Bradshaw had a chance to question him further. Miss Havisham rested her hand on his shoulder. Bradshaw was the only man to whom I had ever seen Miss Havisham show any friendliness at all. Born of a long working association, I think.
“I’m too long in the tooth for this game, Havisham, old girl,” he muttered.
“You and me both, Trafford. But who’d teach the young ones?” She nodded in my direction. I hadn’t been described as “young” for over a decade.
“I’m spent, Estella,” said Bradshaw sadly. “No more new technology for me. I’m going back to my own book for good. At least I won’t have to put up with all this nonsense in Bradshaw of the Congo. Good-bye, old girl.”
“Good-bye, Commander—send my regards to Mrs. Bradshaw.”
“Thank you. And to you, too. Miss—I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Thursday Next.”
“Of course it is. Well, toodle-oo.”
And he smiled, tipped his pith helmet and was gone.
“Dear old Bradshaw,” mused Miss Havisham, “he’s retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we’ll see him again next week.”
“Ah!” muttered the Bellman as he approached. “Havisham and Next.” He consulted his clipboard for a moment. “You weren’t in the Outland on another speed attempt, were you?”
“Me?” replied Havisham. “Of course not!”
“Well,” murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, “the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.”
“How severely?”
“Very severely.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” replied Havisham in the manner of an elderly duchess. “Now, what have you got for us?”
“You’re chairing the Wuthering Heights rage-counseling session.”
“I’ve done my six sessions. It’s Falstaff’s turn.”
The Bellman raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s not true, is it? You’re only on your third. Changing counselors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
“Good. Better not keep them waiting!”
The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.
“Was that a smile?” she snapped.
“No, Miss Havisham,” I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything—especially rage.
“Please do tell me what you think is so very funny. I really am very keen to know.”
“It was a smile,” I said carefully, “of surprise.”
“Was it now? Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let’s make it clear that I was ordered to do this job—same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I’d sooner he were dead, personally speaking—but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.”
There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy—that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It was sort of like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the table of refreshments.
“Well,” said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, “what do you think?”
“Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.”
“Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,” Vernham said warily. “What does Havisham think?”
“I’m really not sure.”
“Vern!” said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. “Which plot does Winnie-the-Pooh have?”
“Triumph of the Underdog?” he suggested.
“Told you!” said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. “ ‘Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity.’ Happy?”
“No,” she replied, “it’s Journey of Discovery all the way.”
“You think every story is Journey of Discovery!”
“It is.”
They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.
“Have you met Mrs. Bradshaw