Miss Havisham picked up the pen and paused before signing.

  “We’ll need my boat, Mr. Wemmick,” she said lowering her voice.

  “I’ll footnoterphone ahead, Miss H,” said Wemmick, winking broadly. “You’ll find it on the jetty.”

  “For a man you are not bad at all, Mr. Wemmick!” said Miss Havisham. “Thursday, gather up the equipment!”

  I picked up the heavy canvas bag.

  “Dickens is within walking distance,” explained Havisham, “but it’s better practice for you if you jump us straight there— there are over fifty thousand miles of shelf space.”

  “Ah—okay, I know how to do that,” I muttered, putting down the bag, taking out my travel book and flicking to the passage about the library.

  “Hold on to me as you jump, and think Dickens as you read.”

  So I did, and within a trice we were at the right place in the library.

  “How was that?” I asked, quite proudly.

  “Not bad,” said Havisham. “But you forgot the bag.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll wait while you get it.”

  So I read myself back to the lobby, retrieved the bag to a few friendly jibes from Deane, and returned—but by accident to where a series of adventure books for plucky girls by Charles Pickens were stored. I sighed, read the library passage again and was soon with Miss Havisham.

  “This is the outings book,” she said without looking up from one of the reading desks. “Name, destination, date, time— I’ve filled it in already. Are you armed?”

  “Always. Do you expect any trouble?”

  Miss Havisham drew out her small pistol, released the twin barrels, pivoted it upwards and gave me one of her more serious stares.

  “I always expect trouble, Thursday. I was on HPD— Heathcliff Protection Duty—in Wuthering Heights for two years, and believe me, the ProCaths tried everything. I personally saved him from assassination eight times.”

  She extracted a spent cartridge, replaced it with a live one and locked the barrels back into place.

  “But Great Expectations? Where’s the danger there?”

  She rolled up her sleeve and showed me a livid scar on her forearm.

  “Things can turn pretty ugly even in Toytown,” she explained. “Believe me, Larry is no lamb—I was lucky to escape with my life.”

  I must have been looking nervous, because she said: “ Everything okay? You can bail out whenever you want, you know. Say the word and you’ll be back in Swindon before you can say ‘Mrs. Hubbard.’ ”

  It wasn’t a threat. She was giving me a way out. I thought of Landen and the baby. I’d survived the book sales and Jane Eyre with no ill effects—how hard could “footling” with the backstory of a Dickens novel be? Besides, I needed all the practice I could get.

  “Ready when you are, Miss Havisham.”

  She nodded, rolled down her sleeve again, pulled Great Expectations from the bookshelf and opened it on one of the reading desks.

  “We need to go in before the story really begins, so this is not a standard bookjump. Are you paying attention?”

  “Yes, Miss Havisham.”

  “Good. I’ve no desire to go through this more than once. First, read us into the book.”

  I opened the book and read aloud from the first page, making quite sure I had hold of the bag this time:

  “. . . Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon toward evening. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all, and beginning to cry, was Pip. . . .”

  And there we were, in amongst the gravestones at the beginning of Great Expectations, the chill and dampness in the air, the fog drifting in from the sea. On the far side of the graveyard a small boy was crouched among the weathered stones, talking to himself as he stared at two gravestones set to one side. But there was someone else there. In fact, there were a group of people, digging away at an area just outside the churchyard walls. They were illuminated in the fading light by two electric lamps powered by a small generator that hummed to itself some distance away.

  “Who are they?” I whispered.

  “Okay,” hissed Havisham, not hearing me straightaway, “now we jump to wherever we want by—What did you say?”

  I nodded in the direction of the group. One of their number pushed a wheelbarrow along a plank and dumped it onto a large heap of spoil.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Havisham, walking briskly toward the small group. “It’s Commander Bradshaw!”

  I trotted after her and I soon saw that the digging was of an archaeological nature. Pegs were set in the ground and joined by lengths of string, delineating the area in which the volunteers were scraping with trowels, all trying to make as little noise as possible. Sitting on a folding safari seat was a man dressed like a big game hunter. He wore a safari suit and pith helmet and sported both a monocle and a large and bushy mustache. He was also barely three feet tall. When he got up from his chair, he was shorter.

  “ ’pon my word, it’s the Havisham girlie!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You’re looking younger every time I see you!”

  Miss Havisham thanked him and introduced me. Bradshaw shook me by the hand and welcomed me to Jurisfiction.

  “What are you up to, Trafford?” asked Havisham.

  “Archaeology for the Charles Dickens Foundation, m’girl. A few of their scholars are of the belief that Great Expectations began not in this churchyard but in Pip’s house when his parents were still alive. There is no manuscriptual evidence, so we thought we’d have a little dig around the environs and see if we could pick up any evidence of previously overwritten scenes.”

  “Any luck?”

  “We’ve struck a reworked idea that ended up in Our Mutual Friend, a few dirty limericks and an unintelligible margin squiggle—but nothing much.”

  Havisham wished him well, and we said our goodbyes and left them to their dig.

  “Is that unusual?”

  “You’ll find around here that there is not much that is usual,” replied Havisham. “It’s what makes this job so enjoyable. Where did we get to?”

  “We were going to jump into the pre-book backstory.”

  “I remember. To jump forwards we have only to concentrate on the page number or, if you prefer, a specific event. To go backwards before the first page we have to think of negative page numbers or an event that we assume had happened before the book began.”

  “How do I picture a negative page number?”

  “Visualize something—an albatross, say.”

  “Yes?”

  “Okay, now take the albatross away.”

  “Yes?”

  “Now take another albatross away.”

  “How can I? There are no albatrosses left!”

  “Okay; imagine I have lent you an albatross to make up your seabird deficit. How many albatrosses have you now?”

  “None.”

  “Good. Now relax while I take my albatross back.”

  I shivered as a coldness swept through me and for a fleeting moment an empty vaguely albatross-shaped void opened and closed in front of me. But the strange thing was, for that briefest moment I understood the principle involved—but then it was gone like a dream upon waking. I blinked and stared at Havisham.

  “That,” she announced, “was a negative albatross. Now you try it—only use page numbers instead of albatrosses.”

  I tried hard to picture a negative page number, but it didn’t work and I found myself in the garden of Satis House, watching two boys square up for a fight. Miss Havisham was soon beside me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying—”

  “You are not, my girl. There are two sorts of people in this world, doers and tryers. You are the latter and I am trying to make you the former. Now concentrate, girl!”

  So I had another attempt at the negative page number idea and this time found myself in a curious tableau resembling the graveyard in Chapter One but with the graves, wall and church little more than cardboard cutouts. The two featured characters, Magwitch and Pip, were also very two-dimensional and as still as statues—except that their eyes swiveled to look at me as I jumped in.

  “Oi,” hissed Magwitch between clenched teeth, not moving a muscle. “Piss off.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Piss off!” repeated Magwitch, this time more angrily.

  I was just pondering over all this when Havisham caught up with me, grabbed my hand and jumped to where we were meant to be.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “The frontispiece. You’re not a natural at this, are you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied, feeling like a bit of a clot.

  “Never mind,” said Miss Havisham in a kindlier tone, “we’ll make a Prose Resource Operative out of you yet.”

  We walked down the darkened jetty to where Havisham’s boat was moored. But it wasn’t any old boat. It was a polished-wood and gleaming-chrome Riva. I stepped aboard the beautifully built motor launch and stowed the gear as Miss Havisham sat in the skipper’s seat.

  Miss Havisham seemed to take on a new lease of life when confronted by anything with a powerful engine. I cast off when she ordered me to and pushed off into the oily black waters of the Thames. The boat rocked slightly as I sat down next to Havisham, who fired up the twin Chevrolet petrol engines with a throaty growl and then gently piloted our way into the darkness of the river. I pulled two cloaks from the bag, donned one and took the other to Miss Havisham, who was standing at the helm, the wind blowing through her gray hair and tugging at her tattered veil.

  “Isn’t this a bit anachronistic?” I asked.

  “Officially yes,” replied Havisham, weaving to avoid a small jolly-boat, “but we’re actually in the backstory minus one day, so I could have brought in a squadron of hurricanes and the entire Ringling Brothers circus and no one would be any the wiser. If we had to do this any time during the book then we’d be stuck with whatever was available—which can be a nuisance.”

  We were moving upriver against a quickening tide. It had gone midnight and I was glad of the cloak. Billows of fog blew in from the sea and gathered in great banks that caused Miss Havisham to slow down; within twenty minutes the fog had closed in and we were alone in the cold and clammy darkness. Miss Havisham shut down the engines and doused the navigation lights, and we gently drifted in with the tide.

  “Sandwich and soup?” said Miss Havisham, peering in the picnic basket.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Do you want my wagonwheel?”

  “I was about to offer you mine.”

  We heard the prison ships before we saw them, the sound of men coughing and cursing and the occasional shout of fear. Miss Havisham started the engines and idled slowly in the direction of the sounds. Then the mist parted and we could see the prison hulk appear in front of us as a large black shape that rose from the water, the only light visible the oil lamps that flickered through the gunports. The old man-of-war was secured fore and aft by heavily rusted anchor chains against which flotsam had collected in a tangle. After checking the name of the ship Miss Havisham slowed down and stopped the engines. We drifted down the flanks of the prison hulk, and I used the boathook to fend us off. The gunports were above us and out of reach, but as we moved silently down the ship we came across a homemade rope draped from a window on the upper gun deck. I quickly fastened the boat to a projecting ring, and the motor launch swung around and settled facing the current.

  “Now what?” I hissed.

  Miss Havisham pointed to the life preserver, and I quickly tied it onto the end of the homemade rope.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” replied Miss Havisham. “Not much to it, is there? Wait—! Look there!”

  She pointed to the side of the prison hulk, where a strange creature had attached itself to one of the gunports. It had large batlike wings folded untidily across the back of its body, which was covered by patchy tufts of matted fur. It had a face like a fox, sad brown eyes and a long thin beak that was inserted deep into the wood of the gunport. It was oblivious to us both and made quiet sucky noises as it fed.

  Miss Havisham raised her pistol and fired. The bullet struck close by the strange creature, which uttered a startled cry of “Gawk!,” unfolded its large wings and flew off into the night.

  “Blast!” said Miss Havisham, lowering her gun and pushing the safety back on. “Missed!”

  The noise had alerted the guards on the deck.

  “Who’s there?” yelled one. “You had better be on the king’s business or by St. George you’ll feel the lead from my musket!”

  “It’s Miss Havisham,” replied Havisham in a vexed tone, “on Jurisfiction business, Sergeant Wade.”

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Havisham,” replied the guard apologetically, “but we heard a gunshot!”

  “That was me,” yelled Havisham. “You have grammasites on your ship!”

  “Really?” replied the guard, leaning out and looking around. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s gone now, you dozy idiot,” said Havisham to herself, quickly adding: “Well, keep a good lookout in future—if you see any more I want to know about them immediately!”

  Sergeant Wade assured her he would, bade us both goodnight, then disappeared from view.

  “What on earth is a grammasite?” I asked, looking nervously about in case the odd-looking creature should return.

  “A parasitic life form that live inside books and feed on grammar,” explained Havisham. “I’m no expert, of course, but that one looked suspiciously like an adjectivore. Can you see the gunport it was feeding on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  I looked at the gunport and frowned. I had expected it to be old or dark or wooden or rotten or wet, but it wasn’t. But then it wasn’t sterile or blank or empty either—it was simply a gunport, nothing more nor less.

  “The adjectivore feeds on the adjectives describing the noun,” explained Havisham, “but it generally leaves the noun intact. We have verminators who deal with them, but there are not enough grammasites in Dickens to cause any serious damage—yet.”

  “How do they move from one book to the next?” I asked, wondering if Mycroft’s bookworms weren’t some sort of grammasite-in-reverse.

  “They seep through the covers using a process called oozemosis. That’s why individual bookshelves are never more than six feet long in the library—you’d be well advised to follow the same procedure at home. I’ve seen grammasites strip a library to nothing but indigestible nouns and page numbers. Ever read Sterne’s Tristram Shandy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grammasites.”

  “I have a lot to learn,” I said softly.

  “Agreed,” replied Havisham. “I’m trying to get the Cat to write an updated travelbook that includes a bestiary, but he has a lot to do in the library—and holding a pen is tricky with paws. Come on, let’s get out of this fog and see what this motor launch can do.”

  As soon as we were clear of the prison ship, Havisham started the engines and slowly powered back the way we had come, once again keeping a careful eye on the compass but even so nearly running aground six times.

  “How did you know Sergeant Wade?”

  “As the Jurisfiction representative in Great Expectations it is my business to know everybody. If there are any problems, then they must be brought to my attention.”

  “Do all books have a rep?”

  “All the ones that have been brought within the controlling sphere of Jurisfiction.”

  The fog didn’t lift. We spent the rest of that cold night steering in amongst the moored boats at the side of the river. Only when dawn broke did we see enough to manage a sedate ten knots.

  We returned the boat to the jetty and Havisham insisted I jump us both back to her room at Satis House, which I managed to accomplish at the first attempt, something that helped me recover some lost confidence over the debacle with the frontispiece. I lit some candles and saw her to bed before returning alone to the stores, and Wemmick. I had the second half of the docket signed, filled out a form for a missing life vest and was about to return home when a very scratched and bruised Harris Tweed appeared from nowhere and approached the counter where I was standing. His clothes were tattered and he had lost one boot and most of his kit. It looked like The Lost World hadn’t really agreed with him. He caught my eye and pointed a finger at me.

  “Don’t say a word. Not a single word!”

  Pickwick was still awake when I got in even though it was nearly 6 a.m. There were two messages on the answer machine—one from Cordelia, and another from a very annoyed Cordelia.

  27.

  Landen and Joffy Again

  George Formby was born George Hoy Booth in Wigan in 1904. He followed his father into the music hall business, adopted the ukulele as his trademark and by the time the war broke out was a star of variety, pantomime and film. During the first years of the war, he and his wife, Beryl, toured extensively for ENSA, entertaining the troops as well as making a series of highly successful movies. By 1942 he and Gracie Fields stood alone as the nation’s favorite entertainers. When invasion of England was inevitable, many influential dignitaries and celebrities were shipped out to Canada. George and Beryl elected to stay and fight, as George put it, “to the last bullet on the end of Wigan pier!” Moving underground with the English resistance and various stalwart regiments of the Local Defense Volunteers, Formby manned the outlawed “Wireless St. George” and broadcast songs, jokes and messages to secret receivers across the country. Always in hiding, always moving, the Formbys used their numerous contacts in the north to smuggle allied airmen to neutral Wales and form resistance cells that harried the Nazi invaders. Hitler’s order of 1944 to “have all ukuleles and banjos in England burnt” was a clear indication of how serious a threat he was considered to be. George’s famous comment after peace was declared, “ee, turned out nice again!,” became a national catchphrase. In postwar republican England he was made nonexecutive president for life, a post he held until his assassination.