Lost in a Good Book

21. Les Arts Modernes de Swindon, ’85

I paid to have my car released with a cheque that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy’s first ‘Les arts modernes de Swindon’ exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half-hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside; all the pews had been moved out and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled among the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn’t be drinking, sniffed at it longingly and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog-collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.

‘Hello, Doofus!’ he said, hugging me affectionately. ‘Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr Saveloy?’

Without waiting for an answer he propelled me towards where a puffy man stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compère of Name That Fruit! and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.

‘Mr Saveloy,’ I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.

‘Delighted!’ grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get you to appear on my show—but you’re probably feeling quite honoured to meet me, just the same.’

‘Quite the reverse,’ I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.

‘Ah!’ said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. ‘I have my Rolls-Royce outside. Perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?’

‘I think,’ I replied, ‘that I would sooner eat rusty nails.’

He didn’t seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said:

‘Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.’

I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.

‘Up to your old tricks, Frankie?’

Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.

‘Damn you, Dilly—out to spoil my fun!’

‘Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.’

Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display

‘You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,’ she said testily. ‘I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!’

‘Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?’

‘He’s performing Richard III at the Ritz—you would have thought he’d never been to Swindon the way he’s carrying on. Can you please make time for them both tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’

We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.

‘So,’ said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, ‘tell us all about it, Mr Duchamp2924.’

‘I call it The id within,’ said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone’s gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone’s eye out. He continued:

‘Like life, my piece reflects the many different layers that cocoon and restrict us in society today. The outer layer—reflecting yet counterpoising the harsh exoskeleton we all display—is hard, thin, yet somehow brittle—but beneath this a softer layer awaits, yet of the same shape and almost the same size. As one delves deeper one finds many different shells, each smaller yet no softer than the one before. The journey is a tearful one, and when one reaches the centre there is almost nothing there at all, and the similarity to the outer crust is, in a sense, illusory.’

‘It’s an onion,’ I said in a loud voice.

There was a stunned silence. Several of the art critics looked at me, then at Duchamp2924, then at the onion.

I was sort of hoping the critics would say something like. ‘We’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention. We nearly made complete dopes of ourselves’, but they didn’t. They just said:

‘Is this true?’

To which Duchamp2924 replied that this was true in fact, but untrue representationally, and as if to reinforce the fact he drew a bunch of shallots from within his jacket and added:

‘I have here another piece I’d like you to see. It’s called The id within II (grouped), and is a collection of concentric three-dimensional shapes locked around a central core…’

Cordelia pulled me away as the critics craned forward with renewed interest.

‘You seem very troublesome tonight, Thursday.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, I want you to meet someone.’

She introduced me to a young man with a well-tailored suit and well-tailored hair.

‘This is Harold Flex,’ announced Cordelia. ‘Harry is Lola Vavoom’s agent and a big cheese in the film industry.’

Flex shook my hand gratefully and told me how fantastically humbled he was to be in my presence.

‘Your story needs to be told, Miss Next,’ enthused Flex, ‘and Lola is very enthusiastic.’

‘Oh, no,’ I said hurriedly, realising what was coming. ‘No, no. Not in a million years.’

‘You should hear Harry out, Thursday,’ pleaded Cordelia. ‘He’s the sort of agent who could cut a really good financial deal for you, do a fantastic PR job for SpecOps and make sure your wishes and opinions in the whole story were vigorously listened to.’

‘A movie’’ I asked incredulously. ‘Are you nuts? Didn’t you see The Adrian Lush Show? SpecOps and Goliath would pare the story to the bone!’

‘We’d present it as fiction, Miss Next,’ explained Flex. ‘We’ve even got a title. The Eyre Affair. What do you think?’

‘I think you’re both out of your tiny minds. Excuse me.’

I left Dilly and Mr Flex plotting their next move in low voices and went to find Bowden, who was staring at a dustbin full of paper cups.

‘How can they present this as art?’ he asked. ‘It looks just like a rubbish bin!’

‘It is a rubbish bin,’ I replied. ‘That’s why it’s next to the refreshments table.’

‘Oh!’ he said, then asked me how the press conference went.

‘Kaine is fishing for votes,’ he told me when I had finished. ‘Got to be. A hundred million might buy you some serious airtime for advertising but putting Cardenio in the public domain could sway the Shakespeare vote—that’s one group of voters you can’t buy.’

I hadn’t thought of this.

‘Anything else?’

Bowden unfolded a piece of paper.

‘Yes. I’m trying to figure out the running order for my stand-up comedy routine tomorrow night.’

‘How long is your slot?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Let me see.’

He had been trying out his routine on me, although I protested that I probably wasn’t the best person to ask. Bowden himself didn’t find any of the jokes funny, although he understood the technical process involved.

‘I’d start off with the penguins on the ice floe,’ I suggested, looking at the list as Bowden made notes, ‘then move on to the pet centipede. Try the white horse in the pub next and if that works well do the tortoise that gets mugged by the snails—but don’t forget the voice; then move on to the dogs in the waiting room at the vet’s and finish with the one about meeting the gorilla.’

‘What about the lion and the baboon?’

‘Good point. Use that instead of the white horse if the centipede goes flat.’

Bowden made a note.

‘Centipede… goes… flat. Got it. What about the man going bear-hunting? I told that to Victor and he sprayed Earl Grey out of both nostrils at once.’

‘Keep it for an encore. It’s three minutes long on its own—but don’t hurry. Let it build—then again, if your audience is middle-aged and a bit fuddy-duddy I’d drop the bear, baboon and the dogs and use the greyhound and the racehorses instead—or the one about the two Rolls-Royces.’

‘Canapés?’ said Mum, offering me a plate.

‘Got any more of those prawny ones?’

‘I’ll go and see.’

I followed her into the vestry, where she and several other members of the Women’s Federation were getting food ready.

‘Mum, Mum,’ I said, following her to where the profoundly deaf Mrs Higgins was laying doilies on plates, ‘I must talk to you.’

‘I’m busy, sweetness.’

‘It’s very important.’

She stopped doing what she was doing, put everything down and steered me to the corner of the vestry, just next to a worn stone effigy, reputedly a follower of St Zvlkx.

‘What’s the problem that’s more important than canapés, o daughter-my-daughter?’

‘Well,’ I began, unsure of how to put it, ‘remember you said how you wanted to be a grandmother?’

‘Oh, that,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ve known you’ve had a bun in there for a while—I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.’

‘Wait a minute!’ I said, feeling suddenly cheated. ‘You’re meant to be all surprised and tearful.’

‘Done that, darling. Can I be so indelicate as to ask who the father is?’

‘My husband, I hope—and before you ask, the ChronoGuard eradicated him.’

She gave me a hug.

‘Now that I can understand. Do you ever see him in the sort of way I see your father?’

‘No,’ I replied miserably, ‘he’s only in my memories.’

‘Poor little duck!’ exclaimed my mother, giving me another hug. ‘But thank the Lord for small mercies—at least you get to remember him. Many of us never do—just vague feelings of something that might have been. You must come along to Eradications Anonymous with me one evening. Believe me, there are more Lost Ones than you might imagine.’

I’d never really talked about Dad’s eradication with my mother. All her friends had assumed my brothers and I had been fathered by youthful indiscretions. To my highly principled mother this had been almost as painful as Dad’s eradication. I’m not really one for any organisation with ‘anonymous’ in the title, so I decided to backtrack slightly.

‘How did you know I was pregnant?’ I asked as she rested her hand on mine and smiled kindly.

‘Could spot it a mile off. You’ve been eating like a horse and staring at babies a lot. When Mrs Pilchard’s little cousin Henry came round last week you could hardly keep your hands off him.’

‘Aren’t I like that usually?’

‘Not even remotely. You’re filling out along the bustline too—that dress has never looked so good on you. When’s sprogging time? July?’

I paused as a wave of despondency washed over me, brought on by the sheer inevitability of motherhood. When I first knew about it Landen had been with me and everything seemed that much easier.

‘Mum, what if I’m no good at it? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’ve spent my working life chasing after bad guys. I can field-strip an M16 blindfold, replace an engine in an APC and hit a two-pence piece from thirty yards eight times out of ten. I’m not sure a cot by the fireside is really my sort of thing.’

‘It wasn’t mine either,’ confided my mother, smiling kindly. ‘It’s no accident that I’m a dreadful cook. Before I met your father and had you and your brothers I worked at SO-3. Still do, on occasions.’

‘You didn’t meet him on a day trip to Portsmouth, then?’ I asked slowly, wondering whether I really wanted to hear what I was hearing.

‘Not at all. It was in another place entirely.’

‘SO-3?’

‘You’d never believe me if I told you, so I’m not going to. But the point is, I was very happy to have children when the time came. Despite all your ceaseless bickering when you were kids, and teenage grumpiness, it’s been a wonderful adventure. Losing Anton was a storm cloud for a bit but on balance it’s been good—better than SpecOps any day.’

She paused.

‘But I was the same as you, worrying about not being ready, about being a bad mother. How did I do?’

She stared at me and smiled kindly.

‘You did good, Mum.’

I hugged her tightly.

‘I’ll do what I can to help, sweetness, but strictly no nappies or potty-training and Tuesday and Thursday evenings are right out.’

‘SO-3?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘bridge and skittles.’

She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed at my eyes.

‘You’ll be fine, sweetness.’

I thanked her and she bustled off, muttering something about having a million mouths to feed I watched her leave, smiling to myself. I thought I knew my mother but I didn’t. Children rarely understand their parents at all.

‘Thursday!’ said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. ‘What use are you if you don’t mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the Neanderthal artist? I’d be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!’ he muttered, staring at the church door. ‘It’s Aubrey Jambe!’

And so it was. Mr Jambe, Swindon’s croquet captain, despite his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.

‘I wonder if he’s brought the chimp,’ I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh.

I found Cordelia and Mr Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was so minimalist it wasn’t there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.

‘What does it say to you, Harry?’

‘It says… nothing, Cords—but in a very different way. How much is it?’

Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.

‘It’s called Beyond Satire and it’s twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?’

‘Nope. Have you met Zorf, the Neanderthal artist?’

I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognised.

‘Miss Next!’ said Stiggins as I approached. ‘We would like to introduce our friend Zorf.’ The slightly younger Neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.

‘This is a very interesting painting, Mr Zorf,’ said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a large six-foot-square canvas ‘What does it represent?’

‘Is not obvious?’ replied the Neanderthal.

‘Of course!’ said Harry, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s daffodils, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘A sunset?’

‘No.’

‘Field of barley?’

‘No.’

‘I give up.’

‘Closest yet, Mr Flex. If you have to ask, then you never understand. To Neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh’s Green Rye is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock or Kandinsky, they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.’

I looked at the small gathering of Neanderthals who were staring at Zorf’s abstract paintings with emotion-filled wonderment, tears in their eyes. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.

‘Can I have another guess?’ he asked Zorf, who nodded.

He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.

‘It’s a—’

‘Hope,’ said a voice close by. ‘It’s hope. Hope for the future of the Neanderthal. It is the fervent wish—for children.’

Zorf and all the other Neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.

‘Exactly what I was about to say,’ said Flex, fooling no one but himself.

‘The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,’ said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. ‘Would lady-sapien like to add to our painting?’

This was indeed an honour. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brush strokes to the left of centre. There was a gasp from the Neanderthals and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men—including Zorf—raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of Neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face with large yet gentle hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the Neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf’s paintings again.

‘Hello, young Thursday!’ said Gran, turning to me. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet to have a chat!’

We walked off towards the church organ and sat on a pair of hard plastic chairs.

‘What did you paint on his picture?’ I asked her, and Gran smiled her sweetest smile.

‘Something a bit controversial,’ she confided, ‘yet supportive. I have worked with Neanderthals in the past and know many of their ways and customs. How’s hubby?’

‘Still eradicated,’ I said glumly.

‘Never mind,’ said Gran seriously, touching my chin so I would look into her eyes. ‘Always there is hope—you’ll find, as I did, that it’s really very funny the way things turn out.’

‘I know. Thanks, Gran.’

‘Your mother will be a tower of strength—never be in any doubt of that.’

‘She’s here if you want to see her.’

‘No, no,’ said Gran, slightly hurriedly. ‘I expect she’s a little busy. While we’re here,’ she went on, changing the subject without drawing breath, ‘can you think of any books that might be included in the “ten most boring classics”? I’m about ready to go.’

‘Gran!’

‘Indulge me, young Thursday!’

I sighed.

‘How about Paradise Lost?’

Gran let out a loud groan.

‘Awful! I could hardly walk for a week afterwards—it’s enough to put anyone off religion for good!’

‘Ivanhoe?’

‘Pretty dull but redeemable in places—it isn’t in the top ten, I think.’

‘Moby Dick?’

‘Excitement and action interspersed with mind-numbing dullness. Read it twice.’

‘A la recherche du temps perdu?’

‘English or French, its sheer tediousness is undimimshed.’

‘Pamela?’

‘Ah! Now you’re talking. Struggled through that when a teenager. It might have had resonance in 1741 but today the only resonance it possesses is the snores that emanate from those deluded enough to attempt it.’

‘How about The Pilgrim’s Progress?’

But Gran’s attention had wandered.

‘You have visitors, my dear. Look over there past the stuffed squid inside the piano and just next to the Fiat 500 carved from frozen toothpaste.’

There were two SpecOps agents in dark suits but they were not Dedmen and Walken. It looked as though SO-5 had suffered another mishap. I asked Gran whether she would be all right on her own and walked across to meet them. I found them looking dubiously at a flattened tuba on the ground entitled The indivisible thriceness of death.

‘What do you think?’ I asked them.

‘I don’t know,’ began the first agent nervously. ‘I’m… I’m… not really up on art.’

‘Even if you were it wouldn’t help here,’ I replied drily. ‘SpecOps 5?’

‘Yes, how did—’

He checked himself quickly and rummaged for a pair of dark glasses.

‘I mean no. Never heard of SpecOps, much less SpecOps 5. Don’t exist. Oh, blast. I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid.’

‘We’re looking for someone named Thursday Next,’ said his partner in a very obvious whisper from the side of her mouth, adding, in case I didn’t get the message: ‘Official business.’

I sighed. Obviously, SO-5 were beginning to run out of volunteers. I wasn’t surprised.

‘What happened to Dedmen and Walken?’ I asked them.

‘They were—’ began the first agent, but the second nudged him in the ribs and announced instead:

‘Never heard of them.’

‘I’m Thursday Next,’ I told them, ‘and I think you’re in more danger than you realise. Where did they get you from? SO-14?’

They took their sunglasses off and looked at me nervously.

‘I’m from SO-22,’ said the first. ‘The name’s Lamb. This is Slaughter; she’s from—’

‘SO-28,’ said the woman. ‘Thank you, Blake, I can talk, you know—and let me handle this. You can’t open your mouth without putting your foot in it.’

Lamb sank into a sulky silence.

‘SO-28? You’re an income tax assessor?’

‘So what if I am?’ retorted Slaughter defiantly. ‘We all have to risk things for advancement.’

‘I know that only too well,’ I replied, steering them towards a quiet spot next to a model of a matchstick made entirely out of bits of the Houses of Parliament. ‘Just so long as you know what you’re getting into. What happened to Walken and Dedmen?’

‘They were reassigned,’ explained Lamb.

‘You mean dead?’

‘No,’ exclaimed Lamb with some surprise. ‘I mean reas—Oh my goodness! Is that what it means?’

I sighed. These two weren’t going to last a day.

‘Your predecessors are both dead, guys—and the ones before that. Four agents gone in less than a week. What happened to Walken’s case notes? Accidentally destroyed?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Lamb laughed. ‘When recovered they were totally intact—they were then put through the shredder by a new member of staff who mistook it for a photocopier.’

‘Do you have anything at all to go on?’

‘As soon as they realised it was a shredder, I… sorry, they stopped and we were left with these.’

He handed two half-documents over. One was a picture of a young woman striding out of a shop laden down with carrier bags and parcels. Her face, tantalisingly enough, had been destroyed by the shredder. I turned the picture over. On the back was a pencilled note: ‘A.H. leaves Camp Hopson having shopped with a stolen credit card.’

‘The “AH” means Acheron Hades,’ explained Lamb in a confident tone. ‘We were allowed to read part of his file. He can lie in thought, deed and action.’

‘I know. I wrote it. But this isn’t Hades. Acheron doesn’t resolve on film.’

‘Then who is it that we’re after?’ asked Slaughter.

‘I have no idea. What was on the other document?’

This was simply a handwritten page of notes, compiled by Walken about whoever it was they were watching. I read:

‘…9.34: Contact with suspect at Camp Hopson sales. 11.03: Elevenses of carrot juice and flapjack—leaves without paying. 11.48: Dorothy Perkins. 12.57: Lunch. 14.45: Continues shopping. 17.20: Argues with manager of Tammy Girl about returned leg warmers. 17.45: Lost contact. 21.03: Re-established contact at the HotBox nightclub. 23.02: AH leaves the HotBox with male companion. 23.16: Contact lost…’

I put down the sheet.

‘It’s not exactly what I’d describe as the work of a master criminal, now, is it?’

‘No,’ replied Slaughter glumly.

‘What were your orders?’

‘Classified,’ announced Lamb, who was getting the hang of SpecOps 5 work, right at the point where I didn’t want him to.

‘Stick to you like glue,’ said Slaughter, who understood the situation a lot better, ‘and reports every half an hour sent to SO-5 HQ in three separate ways.’

‘You’re being used as live bait,’ I told them. ‘If I were you I’d go back to SO-23 and 28 just as quick as your legs can carry you.’

‘And miss all this?’ asked Slaughter, replacing her dark glasses and looking every bit the part. SO-5 would be the highest office for either of them. I hoped they lived long enough to enjoy it.

By 10.30 the exhibition was pretty much over. I sent Gran home in a cab fast asleep and a bit tipsy. Saveloy tried to kiss me goodnight but I was too quick for him, and Duchamp2924 had managed to sell an installation of his called The id within VII—in a jar, pickled. Zorf refused to sell any paintings to anyone who couldn’t see what they were, but to the Neanderthals who could see what they were, he gave them away, arguing that the bond between a painting and an owner should not be sullied by anything as obscenely sapien as cash. The flattened tuba was sold too, the new owner asking Joffy to drop it round to him, and if he wasn’t at home to just slip it under the door.

I went home via Mum’s place to collect Pickwick, who hadn’t come out of the airing cupboard the entire time I was in Osaka.

‘She insisted on being fed in there,’ explained my mother, ‘and the trouble with the other dodos! Let one in and they all want to follow!’

She handed me Pickwick’s egg wrapped in a towel. Pickwick hopped up and down in a very aggravated manner and I had to show her the egg to keep her happy, then we both drove home to my apartment at the same sedate 20 m.p.h. and I placed the egg safely in the linen cupboard with Pickwick sitting on it in a cross mood, very fed up with being moved about.