The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [404]
“I will not come through this,” she whispered.
“You’ll be fine! In Great Expectations you survive until the end—can’t let Dickens or the readers down, hey?”
“Then it looks like we will both be guilty of a Fiction Infraction, my dear.”
She tried to smile but couldn’t make her swollen features do as she bid.
“I have enough strength to make a good exit. I will make my peace with Pip and Estella—a far better ending for me, I think.”
“Miss Havisham!” I pleaded. “Please don’t talk this way!”
“You are close to me, my dear,” she hissed, “they will come for you next!”
“But why?”
“The formulaic, Thursday. It is our enemy. Uphold fiction’s independence, beware of Big Martin and shun the frumious bandersnatch . . .”
“She’s becoming delirious,” said the medic as I felt her clasp loosen from mine, and with it, I felt my eyes start to stream. More medics arrived and I moved towards the back of the room where Pip, Estella, and Mr. Pumblechook had all arrived to look on helplessly as the medics attempted to save her life.
“You did what you could,” said Pip slowly, “and we are very grateful to you.”
“It wasn’t enough,” I said quietly, “but she wants to improvise a new ending with you.”
“Then I will stay here,” said Pip softly, “until she regains consciousness.”
We waited there, Pip and I, until Miss Havisham was well enough to make her final appearance in Great Expectations. She had bade farewell to the Bellman and Bradshaw. The Council of Genres had even interrupted their busy schedule to rubber-stamp an Internal Plot Adjustment to allow her to improvise her own fiery ending. An A-2 generic was being trained to take her place even as we were saying our good-byes. She took my arm even though she couldn’t see me and pressed the Ultra Word™ copy of The Little Prince into my hand.
“The formulaic,” she said again, “is our one true enemy. Defend the BookWorld against it, promise me?”
“I promise.”
“You know, Thursday, you’re going to be pretty good at all this.”
I thanked her.
“One more thing.”
I leaned closer.
“Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I don’t think men are quite so bad as I make out.”
I smiled. “You might be right.”
She coughed again and signaled for me to leave. I had many questions I needed to ask, but she didn’t have long and we both knew it. I nodded to Pip as we passed each other at the door, and I gently closed it behind me. I waited outside with a heavy heart and tensed as I heard a shriek and a flickering orange light shone beneath the door. I heard Pip curse, then more thumps and shouts as he smothered the fire with his cape. Jaw clenched, I turned away, my heart heavy with loss. She had been bossy and obnoxious, but she had protected me, rescued me and taught me well. I have yet to meet a more extraordinary woman, either real or imagined, and she would always have a place in my heart.
26.
Post-Havisham Blues
The Bellman lived in a grace-and-favor apartment at Norland Park when he wasn’t working in The Hunting of the Snark. He had been head of Jurisfiction for twenty years and was required, under Council of Genres mandate, to stand down. The Bellman, oddly enough, had always been called the Bellman—it was no more than coincidence that he had actually been a Bellman himself. The previous Bellman had been Bradshaw, and before him, Virginia Woolf. Under Woolf, Jurisfiction roll calls tended to last several hours.
THE BELLMAN,
Hardest Job in Fiction
I WALKED INTO THE Jurisfiction offices an hour later. The Bellman, Bradshaw and Harris Tweed were staring at two pieces of broken and scorched metal lying on a desk.
“I can’t say how sorry we all are,” said the Bellman, “we all thought the world of her. Did she tell you about the time the Martians escaped and tried to force the Council of Genres into ordering a sequel—one where they were triumphant?”
“No,” I said quietly, “she rarely talked about her past work. What’s this?” I pointed