The Well of Lost Plots

I returned to the kitchen, ibb and obb had been studying Mrs Beeton all day, and ibb was attempting steak Diane with french fries. Landen used to cook that for me and I suddenly felt very lonesome and small, so far from home I might very well be on Pluto, obb was putting the final touches to a fully decorated four-tier wedding cake.

'Hello, ibb,' I said, 'how's it going?'

'How's what going?' replied the Generic in that annoying literal way in which they speak. 'And I'm obb.'

'Sorry — obb.'

'Why are you sorry? Have you done something?'

'Never mind.'

I sat down at the table and opened a package that had arrived. It was from Miss Havisham and contained the Jurisfiction Standard Entrance Exam. Jurisfiction was the policing agency within fiction that I had joined almost by accident — I had wanted to get Jack Schitt out of 'The Raven' and getting involved with the agency seemed to be the best way to learn. But Jurisfiction had grown on me and I now felt strongly about maintaining the solidity of the written word. It was the same job I had undertaken at SpecOps, just from the other side. But it struck me that, on this occasion, Miss Havisham was wrong — I was not yet ready for full membership.

The hefty tome consisted of five hundred questions, nearly all of them multiple choice. I noticed that the exam was self-invigilating; as soon as I opened the book a clock in the top left-hand corner started to count down from two hours. They were mostly questions about literature, which I had no problem with. Jurisfiction law was trickier and I would probably need to consult Miss Havisham. I made a start and ten minutes later was pondering question forty-six: Which of the following poets never used the outlawed word 'majestic' in their work? when there was a knock at the door accompanied by a peal of thunder.

I closed the exam book and opened the door. On the jetty were three ugly old crones dressed in filthy rags. They had bony features, rough and warty skin, and they launched into a well-rehearsed act as soon as the door opened.

'When shall we three meet again?' said the first witch. 'In Thurber, Wodehouse, or in Greene?'

'When the hurly-burly's done,' added the second, 'when the story's thought and spun!'

There was a pause until the second witch nudged the third.

'That will be Eyre the set of sun,' she said quickly.

'Where the place?'

'Within the text.'

'There to meet with MsNext!'

They stopped talking and I stared, unsure of what I was meant to do.

'Thank you very much,' I replied, but the first witch snorted disparagingly and "wedged her foot in the door as I tried to close it.

'Prophecies, kind lady?' she asked as the other two cackled hideously.

'I really don't think so,' I answered, pushing her foot away. 'Perhaps another time.'

'All hail, MsNext! hail to thee, citizen of Swindon!'

'Really, I'm sorry — and I'm out of change.'

'All hail, MsNext, hail to thee, full Jurisfiction agent, thou shalt be!'

'If you don't go,' I began, starting to get annoyed, 'I'll—'

'All hail, MsNext, thou shalt be Bellman thereafter!'

'Sure I will. Go on, clear off, you imperfect speakers — bother someone else with your nonsense!'

'A shilling!' said the first. 'And we shall tell you more — or less, as you please.'

I closed the door despite their grumbling and went back to my multiple choice. I'd only just answered question forty-nine: Which of the following is not a gerund? when there was another knock at the door.

'Blast!' I muttered, getting up and striking my ankle on the table leg. It was the three witches again.

'I thought I told you—'

'Sixpence, then,' said the chief hag, putting out a bony hand.

'No,' I replied firmly, rubbing my ankle. 'I never buy anything at the door.'

They all started up then:

'Thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up—'

I shut the door again. I wasn't superstitious and had far more important things to worry about. I had just sat down again, sipped my tea and answered the next question: Who wrote 'Toad of Toad Hall'? when there was another rap at the door.

'Right,' I said to myself, marching across the room, 'I've had it with you three.'

I pulled open the door and said:

'Listen here, hag, I'm really not interested, nor ever will be in your … Oh.'

I stared. Granny Next. If it had been Admiral Lord Nelson himself I don't think I could have been more surprised.

'Gran!?!' I exclaimed. 'What on earth are you doing here?'

She was dressed in a spectacular outfit of blue gingham, from her dress to her overcoat and even her hat, shoes and bag.

I hugged her. She smelt of Bodmin for Women. She hugged me in return in that sort of fragile way that very elderly people do. And she was elderly — a hundred and eight, at the last count.

'I have come to look after you, young Thursday,' she announced.

'Er — thank you, Gran,' I replied, wondering quite how she got here.

'You're going to have a baby and need attending to,' she added grandly. 'My suitcase is on the jetty and you're going to have to pay the taxi.'

'Of course,' I muttered, going outside and finding a yellow cab with TransGenreTaxis written on the door.

'How much?' I asked the cabby.

'Seventeen and six.'

'Oh yes?' I replied sarcastically. 'Took the long way round?'

'Trips to the the Well cost double,' said the cabby. 'Pay up or I'll make sure Jurisfiction hears about it.'

I handed him a pound and he patted his pockets.

'Sorry,' he said, 'have you got anything smaller? I don't carry much change.'

'Keep it,' I told him as his footnoterphone muttered something about a party often wanting to get out of Florence in The Decameron. I got a receipt and he vanished from view. I picked up Gran's suitcase and hauled it into the Sunderland.

'This is ibb and obb,' I explained, 'Generics billeted with me. The one on the left is ibb.'

'I'm obb.'

'Sorry. That's ibb and that's obb. This is my grandmother.'

'Hello,' said Granny Next, gazing at my two house guests.

'You're very old,' observed ibb.

'One hundred and eight,' announced Gran proudly. 'Do you two do anything but stare?'

'Not really,' said ibb.

'Plock,' said Pickwick, who had popped her head round the door. She ruffled her feathers excitedly and rushed up to greet Gran, who always seemed to have a few spare marshmallows about her.

'What's it like being old?' asked ibb, who was peering closely at the soft pink folds in Gran's skin.

'Death's adolescence,' replied Gran, 'but you know the worst part?'

Ibb and obb shook their heads.

'I'm going to miss my funeral by three days.'

'Gran!' I scolded. 'You'll confuse them — they tend to take things literally.'

It was too late.

'Miss your own funeral?' muttered ibb, thinking hard. 'How is that possible?'

'Think about it, ibb,' said obb. 'If she lived three days longer, she'd be able to speak at her own funeral — get it?'

'Of course,' said ibb, 'stupid of me.'

And they went into the kitchen, talking about Mrs Beeton and the best way to deal with amorous liaisons between the scullery maid and the boot boy — it must have been an old edition.

'When's supper?' asked Gran, looking disdainfully at the interior of the flying boat. 'I'm absolutely famished — but nothing tougher than suet, mind. The gnashers aren't what they were.'

I delicately helped her out of her gingham coat and sat her down at the table. Steak Diane would be like eating railway sleepers to her, so I started to make an omelette.