The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [660]
Joffy’s nominal leadership of the British Archipelago Branch of the Global Standard Deity was a matter of considerable import within the Next family. The GSD was proposed by delegates of the 1978 Global Interfaith Symposium and had gathered momentum since then, garnering converts from all the faiths into one diverse religion that was flexible enough to offer something for everyone.
“I’m amazed you managed to convert them all,” I said.
“It wasn’t a conversion,” he replied, “it was a unification.”
“And you are here now because…?”
“Landen said he’d videotape Dr. Who for me, and the Daleks are my favorite.”
“I’m more into the Sontarans myself,” said Miles.
“Humph!” said Joffy. “It’s what I would expect from someone who thinks Jon Pertwee was the best Doctor.”
Landen and I stared at him, unsure of whether we should agree, postulate a different theory—or what.
“It was Tom Baker,” said Joffy, ending the embarrassed silence. Miles made a noise that sounded like “conventionalist,” and Landen went off to fetch the tape.
“Doofus?” whispered Joffy when Landen had gone.
“Yes?”
“Have you told him?”
“No,” I whispered back.
“You can’t not tell him, Thursday—if you don’t tell him the truth about the BookWorld and Acme Carpets, it’s like you’re—I don’t know—lying to him.”
“It’s for his own good,” I hissed. “It’s not like I’m having an affair or something.”
“Are you?”
“No, of course not!”
“It’s still a lie, sister dearest. How would you like it if he lied to you about what he did all day?”
“I daresay I’d not like it. Leave it to me, Joff—I’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. Happy birthday—and in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s some Camembert on fire in the hood of your Acme Carpets van.”
“Some what?”
“Camembert. On fire.”
“Here it is,” said Landen, returning with a video. “‘Remembrance of the Daleks.’ Where did Thursday go?”
“Oh, she just nipped out for something. Well, must be off! People to educate, persuade and unify—hopefully in that order. Ha-ha-ha.”
“Sorry about that,” I said, coming back from outside. “I thought I saw Pickwick make faces at the cat next door—you know how they hate each other.”
“But she’s over there,” said Landen, pointing to where Pickwick was still struggling to look at herself and her blue-and-white stripy sweater in the mirror.
I shrugged. “Must have been another dodo.”
“Is there another bald dodo in the neighborhood with a blue stripy cardigan? And can you smell burning cheese?”
“No,” I said innocently. “What about you, Joff?”
“I’ve got to go,” he repeated, staring at his watch. “Remember what I said, sister dearest!”
And he and Miles walked off toward the crowd that had started to gather around the wrecked car.
“I swear I can smell burning cheese,” said Landen as I shut the front door.
“Probably Mrs. Berko-Boyler cooking next door.”
Outwardly I was worry-free, but inside I was more nervous. A chunk of burning Camembert on your doorstep meant only one thing: a warning from the Swindon Old Town Cheese Mafia—or, as they liked to be known, the Stiltonistas.
16.
Cheese
The controversial Milk Levy from which the unpopular Cheese Duty is derived was imposed in 1970 by the then Whig government, which needed to raise funds for a potential escalation of war in the Crimea. With the duty now running at 1,530 percent on hard and 1,290 percent on smelly, illegal cheese making and smuggling had become a very lucrative business indeed. The Cheese Enforcement Agency was formed not only to supervise the licensing of cheese but also to collect the tax levied on it by an overzealous government. Small wonder that there was a thriving underground cheese market.
Thanks for tipping us the wink about the dodo fanciers,” I said as we drove through the darkened streets of Swindon two hours later. A tow truck had removed the wreckage of the fanciers