The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [458]
“Joffy,” said Joffy, “brother of Thursday.”
“Hamlet,” said Hamlet, “Prince of Denmark.”
“Danish?” said Joffy with a start. “I shouldn’t spread that around if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Darling!” said my mother, appearing behind Joffy. “You’re back! Goodness! Your hair!”
“It’s a Joan of Arc thing,” explained Joffy, “very fashionable right now. Martyrs are big on the catwalk, y’know—remember the Edith Cavell / Tolpuddle look in last month’s FeMole?”
“He’s talking rubbish again, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Joffy and I in unison.
“Hello, Mum,” I said, giving her a hug. “Remember your grandson?”
She picked him up and remarked how much he had grown. It was unlikely in the extreme that he had shrunk, but I smiled dutifully nonetheless. I tried to visit the real world as often as I could but hadn’t been able to manage it for at least six months. When she had nearly fainted by hyperventilating with ooohs and aaaahs and Friday had stopped looking at her dubiously, she invited us indoors.
“You stay out here,” I said to Pickwick, “and don’t let Alan misbehave himself.”
It was too late. Alan, small size notwithstanding, had already terrorized Mordecai and the other dodos into submission. They all shivered in fright beneath the hydrangeas.
“Are you staying for long?” inquired my mother. “Your room is just how you left it.”
This meant just how I left it when I was nineteen, but I thought it rude to say so. I explained that I’d like to stay at least until I got an apartment sorted out, introduced Hamlet and asked if he could stay for a few days, too.
“Of course! Lady Hamilton’s in the spare room and that nice Mr. Bismarck is in the attic, so he can have the box room.”
My mother grasped Hamlet’s hand and shook it heartily. “How are you, Mr. Hamlet? Where did you say you were the prince of again?”
“Denmark.”
“Ah! No visitors after seven P.M. and breakfast stops at nine A.M. prompt. I do expect guests to make their own beds and if you need washing done you can put it in the wicker basket on the landing. Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Next, Thursday’s mother.”
“I have a mother,” replied Hamlet gloomily as he bowed politely and kissed my mother’s hand. “She shares my uncle’s bed.”
“They should buy another one, in that case,” she replied, practical as ever. “They do a very good deal at IKEA, I’m told. Don’t use it myself because I don’t like all that self-assembly—I mean, what’s the point of paying for something you have to build yourself? But it’s popular with men for exactly that same reason. Do you like Battenberg?”
“Wittenberg?”
“No, no. Battenberg.”
“On the river Eder?” asked Hamlet, confused over my mother’s conversational leap from self-assembly furniture to cake.
“No, silly, on a doily—covered with marzipan.”
Hamlet leaned closer to me. “I think your mother may be insane—and I should know.”
“You’ll get the hang of what she’s talking about,” I said, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.
We walked through the hall to the living room, where, after managing to extract Friday’s fingers from Mum’s beads, we managed to sit down.
“So tell me all your news!” she exclaimed as my eyes flicked around the room, trying to take in all the many potential hazards for a two-year-old.
“Where do you want me to begin?” I asked, removing the vase of flowers from the top of the TV before Friday had a chance to pull them over on himself. “I had a flurry of things to do before I left. Two days ago I was in Camelot trying to sort out some marital strife, and the day before—sweetheart, don’t touch that—I was negotiating a pay dispute with the Union of Orcs.”
“Goodness!” replied my mother. “You must be simply dying for a cup of tea.”
“Please. The BookWorld might be the cat’s pajamas for characterization and explosive narrative, but you can’t get a decent cup of tea for all the bourbon in Hemingway.”
“I’ll do it!” said Joffy. “C’mon, Hamlet, tell me about yourself. Got a girlfriend?”
“Yes—but she’s bonkers.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
Hamlet shrugged. “Neither—just bonkers. But her brother—hell’s teeth!