The well of lost plots (16 page)

“Is there a point to all this?” asked Libris testily.

“Ah!” replied Falstaff, trying to figure out where he
was
going with all this. “Oh, yes. I was there for the much heralded Version-4 upgrade. ‘Change the way we read forever,’ quoth the Council of Genres. And what happened? The Deep Text Crash of 1842. Almost everything by Euripedes, Aeschylus and Sophocles gone forever — and we created grammasites.”

“It was never proven that Version 4 created the grammasites, Sir John—”

“Come, come, Libris, have you dried your brain? I was there. I saw it.
I know
.”

Libris put up his hands. “I didn’t come here to argue, Sir John — I just want to stick to the facts. Anyhow, Ultra Word™ is incompatible with grammasites. Text will be locked — they’ll have nothing to feed on.”

“You hope, sir.”

“We
know
,” replied Libris firmly, adding more slowly, “Listen, Version-4
was
a big mistake, we freely admit that — which is why we have taken so long to rigorously test UltraWord™. It is no small boast that we call it ‘the ultimate reading experience.’ ” He paused for a moment. “It’s here to stay, ladies and gentlemen — so get used to it.”

He expected another attack from Falstaff, but King Hal’s old friend had sat down and was shaking his head sadly. No one else added anything.

Libris took a step back and looked pointedly at the Bellman, who tingled his bell.

“Well, thank you all for listening to WordMaster Libris’s presentation, and I would like to thank him for coming here today to tell us all about it.”

The Bellman started to clap his hands and we joined in — with the notable exceptions of Falstaff and Bradshaw.

“Presentation booklets will be available shortly,” said the Bellman, who had suddenly begun to fidget, “individual assignments will be given out in ten minutes. And remember, let’s be careful out there. That’s it. Session’s over.”

And he tingled his bell.

Libris stepped down from the dais and melted away before Bradshaw had a chance to question him further. Miss Havisham rested her hand on his shoulder. Bradshaw was the only man to whom I had ever seen Miss Havisham show any friendliness at all. Born of a long working association, I think.

“I’m too long in the tooth for this game, Havisham, old girl,” he muttered.

“You and me both, Trafford. But who’d teach the young ones?” She nodded in my direction. I hadn’t been described as “young” for over a decade.

“I’m spent, Estella,” said Bradshaw sadly. “No more new technology for me. I’m going back to my own book for good. At least I won’t have to put up with all this nonsense in
Bradshaw of the Congo
. Good-bye, old girl.”

“Good-bye, Commander — send my regards to Mrs. Bradshaw.”

“Thank you. And to you, too. Miss — I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Thursday Next.”

“Of course it is. Well, toodle-oo.”

And he smiled, tipped his pith helmet and was gone.

“Dear old Bradshaw,” mused Miss Havisham, “he’s retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we’ll see him again next week.”

“Ah!” muttered the Bellman as he approached. “Havisham and Next.” He consulted his clipboard for a moment. “You weren’t in the Outland on another speed attempt, were you?”

“Me?” replied Havisham. “Of course not!”

“Well,” murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, “the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.”

“How severely?”

“
Very
severely.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” replied Havisham in the manner of an elderly duchess. “Now, what have you got for us?”

“You’re chairing the
Wuthering Heights
rage-counseling session.”

“I’ve done my six sessions. It’s Falstaff’s turn.”

The Bellman raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s not true, is it? You’re only on your third. Changing counselors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.”

She sighed. “Very well.”

“Good. Better not keep them waiting!”

The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.

“Was that a smile?” she snapped.

“No, Miss Havisham,” I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything — especially rage.

“Please do tell me what you think is so very funny. I really am very keen to know.”

“It was a smile,” I said carefully, “of surprise.”

“Was it now? Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let’s make it clear that I was
ordered
to do this job — same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I’d sooner he were dead, personally speaking — but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.”

There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy — that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It was sort of like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the table of refreshments.

“Well,” said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, “what do you think?”

“Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.”

“Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,” Vernham said warily. “What does Havisham think?”

“I’m really not sure.”

“Vern!” said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. “Which plot does
Winnie-the-Pooh
have?”

“
Triumph of the Underdog
?” he suggested.

“Told you!” said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. “ ‘Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity.’ Happy?”

“No,” she replied, “it’s
Journey of Discovery
all the way.”

“You think every story is
Journey of Discovery
!”

“It is.”

They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.

“Have you met Mrs. Bradshaw yet?” asked Deane.

I told him that I hadn’t.

“When you do, don’t laugh or anything.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first.

Deane ate a canapé and asked, “So how are things with you these days? Last time we met, you were having a little trouble in the Outland.”

“I’m living in the Well now, as part of the Character Exchange Program.”

“Really? What a lark. How’s the latest Farquitt getting along?”

“Well, I
think
,” I told him, always sensitive to Deane’s slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil-squire figure, “the working title is
Shameless Love
.”

“Sounds like a Farquitt,” sighed Deane. “There’ll probably be a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, cruelly cast from the house to have her baby in the poorhouse — only to have their revenge ten chapters later.”

“Well, I don’t know—”

“It’s not fair, you know,” he said, his mood changing. “Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?”

“Because you’re the bad guy and they
always
get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?”

“It’s still not fair.” He scowled. “I’ve applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn’t have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She’s on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I’m told.”

“Would that be appropriate? Me talking to her, I mean?”

“Not really,” he retorted, “but I’m willing to try anything. Speak to her, won’t you?”

I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn’t. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction, but in
The Squire of High Potternews
he was a monster. Dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him — in narrative terms, anyway.

I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who abruptly broke off talking to Perkins as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of
Wuthering Heights
in her hand. I knew from Havisham’s hatred of men that she probably
did
have a soft spot for Heathcliff — but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone crag.

“Did you meet the three witches, by the way?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “They told me—”

“Ignore
everything
they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.”

“But they said—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t say ‘Sure’ — it’s so slovenly! What’s wrong with ‘Yes, Miss Havisham’?”

“Yes, Miss Havisham.”

“Better, I suppose. Come, we are Brontë bound!”

And so saying, we read ourselves into the pages of
Wuthering Heights
.

Wuthering Heights
was the only novel written by Emily Brontë, which some say is just as well, and others, a crying shame. Quite what she would have written had she lived longer is a matter of some conjecture; given Emily’s strong-willed and passionate character, probably more of the same. But one thing is certain; whatever feelings are aroused in the reader by
Heights
, whether sadness for the ill-matched lovers, irritability at Catherine’s petulant ways or even profound rage at how stupid Heathcliff’s victims can act as they meekly line up to be abused, one thing is for sure: the evocation of a wild and windswept place that so well reflects the destructive passion of the two central characters is captured here brilliantly — and some would say, it has not been surpassed.

MILLON DE FLOSS,
Wuthering Heights: Masterpiece or Turgid Rubbish?

IT WAS SNOWING when we arrived and the wind whipped the flakes into something akin to a large cloud of excitable winter midges. The house was a lot smaller than I imagined but no less shabby, even under the softening cloak of snow. The shutters hung askew and only the faintest glimmer of light showed from within. It was clear we were visiting the house not in the good days of old Mr. Earnshaw but in the tenure of Mr. Heathcliff, whose barbaric hold over the house seemed to be reflected in the dour and windswept abode that we approached.

Our feet crunched on the fresh snow as we approached the front door and rapped upon the gnarled wood. It was answered, after a very long pause, by an old and sinewy man who looked at us both in turn with a sour expression before recognition dawned across his tired features and he launched into an excited gabble:

“It’s bonny behavior, lurking amang t’ fields, after twelve o’ t’ night, wi’ that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I’m blind; but I’m noan: nowt ut t’ soart! — I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed
yah
— yah gooid fur nowt, slatternly witch! — nip up and bolt into th’ house, t’ minute yah heard t’ maister’s horse-fit clatter up t’ road!”

“Never mind all that!” exclaimed Miss Havisham, to whom patience was an alien concept. “Let us in, Joseph, or you’ll be feeling my boot upon your trousers!”

He grumbled but opened the door anyway. We stepped in amidst a swirl of snowflakes and tramped our feet upon the mat as the door was latched behind us.

“What did he say?” I asked as Joseph carried on muttering to himself under his breath.

“I have absolutely no idea,” replied Miss Havisham, shaking the snow from her faded bridal veil, “in fact,
nobody
does. Come, you are to meet the others. For the rage-counseling session, we insist that every major character within
Heights
attends.”

There was no introductory foyer or passage to the room. The front door opened into a large family sitting room where seven people were clustered around the hearth. One of the men rose politely and inclined his head in greeting. This, I learned later, was Edgar Linton, husband of Catherine Earnshaw, who sat next to him on the wooden settle and glowered meditatively into the fire. Next to them was a dissolute-looking man who appeared to be asleep, or drunk, or quite possibly both. It was clear that they were waiting for us, and equally clear from the lack of enthusiasm that counseling wasn’t high on their list of priorities — or interests.

“Good evening, everyone,” said Miss Havisham, “and I’d like to thank you all for attending this Jurisfiction Rage Counseling session.”

She sounded almost friendly. It was quite out of character and I wondered how long she could keep it up.

“This is Miss Next, who will be observing this evening’s session. Now, I want us all to join hands and create a circle of trust to welcome her to the group. Where’s Heathcliff?”

“I have no idea where that scoundrel might be!” declaimed Linton angrily. “Facedown in a bog for all I care — the devil may take him and not before time!”

“Oh!” cried Catherine, withdrawing her hand from Edgar’s. “Why do you hate him so? He, who loved me more than you ever could — !”

“Now now,” interrupted Havisham in a soothing tone, “remember what we said last week about name-calling? Edgar, I think you should apologize to Catherine for calling Heathcliff a scoundrel, and Catherine, you did promise last week not to mention how much you were in love with Heathcliff in front of your husband.”

They grumbled their apologies.

“Heathcliff is due here any moment,” said another servant, who I assumed was Nelly Dean. “His agent said he had to do some publicity. Can we not start without him?”

Miss Havisham looked at her watch. “We could get past the introductions, I suppose,” she replied, obviously keen to finish this up and go home. “Perhaps we could introduce ourselves to Miss Next and sum up our feelings at the same time. Edgar, would you mind?”