The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [517]
“He wishes you . . . um . . . both good morrow,” said Joffy, visibly shaken. “St. Zulkx, this is Lady Hamilton and Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
“If you’re giuing away one of those puppies,” continued St. Zvlkx, staring at Emma’s cleavage, “I’ll haue the one with the brown nose.”
“Good morning,” said Hamlet without smiling. “Any more bad language against the good Lady Hamilton and I’ll take you outside and make your quietus with a bare bodkin.”
“What did the Prince say?” asked St. Zvlkx.
“Yes,” said Joffy, “what did he say?”
“It’s Courier Bold,” I told him, “the traditional language of the BookWorld. He said that he would be failing in his duty as a gentleman if he allowed Zvlkx to show any disrespect to Lady Hamilton.”
“What did your sister say?” asked St. Zvlkx.
“She said that if you insult Hamlet’s bird again, your nose will be two foot wide across your face.”
“Oh.”
“Well,” said my mother, “this is turning out to be a very pleasant morning!”
“In that case,” asked Joffy, sensing that the time was just right, “could St. Zvlkx stay here until midday? I’ve got to give a sermon to the Sisters of Eternal Punctuality at ten, and if I’m late, they throw their prayer books at me.”
“No can do, oh, son-my-son,” said my mother, flipping the bacon. “Why not take St. Zvlkx with you? I’m sure the nuns will be impressed by his piety.”
“Did someone mention nuns?” asked St. Zvlkx, looking around eagerly.
“How you got to be a saint I haue no idea,” chided Joffy. “Another peep out of you and I’ll personally kick your uulgar arse all the way back to the thirteenth century.”
St. Zvlkx shrugged, wolfed down his bacon and eggs with his hands and then burped loudly. Friday did the same and collapsed into a fit of giggles.
They all left soon after. Joffy wouldn’t mind Friday, and Zvlkx certainly couldn’t, so there was nothing for it. As soon as Mum had found her hat, coat and keys and gone out, I rushed upstairs, dressed, then read myself into Bradshaw Defies the Kaiser to ask Melanie if she would look after Friday until teatime. Mum said she would be out the whole day, and since Hamlet already knew that Melanie was a gorilla and neither Emma nor Bismarck could exactly complain since they were long-dead historical figures themselves, I thought it a safe bet. It was against regulations, but with Hamlet and the world facing an uncertain future, I was past caring.
Melanie happily agreed, and once she had changed into a yellow polka-dot dress, I brought her out of the BookWorld to my mother’s front room, which she thought very smart, especially the festoon curtains. She was pulling the cord to watch the curtains rise and fall when Emma walked in.
“Lady Hamilton,” I announced, “this is Melanie Bradshaw.” Mel put out a large hand, and Emma shook it nervously, as though expecting Melanie to bite her or something.
“How . . . how do you do?” she stammered. “I’ve never been introduced to a monkey before.”
“Ape,” corrected Melanie helpfully. “Monkeys generally have tails, are truly arboreal and belong to the families Hylobatidae, Cebidae and Ceropithecidae. You and I and all the great apes are Pongidae. I’m a gorilla. Well, strictly speaking, I’m a mountain gorilla—Gorilla gorilla beringei—which lives on the slopes of the Virunga volcanoes—we used to call it British East Africa, but I’m not sure what it is now. Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“Charming place. That’s where Trafford—my husband—and I met. He was with his gun bearers hacking his way through the undergrowth during the backstory to Bradshaw Hunts Big Game (Collins, 1878, 4/6, illustrated), and he slipped from the path and fell twenty feet into the ravine below, where I was taking a bath.”
She picked up Friday in her massive arms, and he chortled with delight.
“Well, I was most dreadfully embarrassed. I mean, I was sitting there in the running water without a stitch on, but—and I’ll always remember this—Trafford politely apologized and turned his back so I could nip into the bushes and get dressed. I came out to ask him if he might