Lost in a Good Book

24. Performance-related Pay, Miles Hawke & Norland Park

Dog tired, I slept well that night. I had expected to see Landen but dreamt of Humpty Dumpty, which was odd. I went into work, avoided Cordelia again and then had to take my turn with the employment review board, which was all part of the SpecOps work-related pay scheme. Victor would have given us all ‘A++’, but sadly it wasn’t conducted by him—it was chaired by the area commander, Braxton Hicks.

‘Ah, Next!’ he said jovially as I entered. ‘Good to see you. Have a seat, won’t you?’

I thanked him and sat down. He looked at my performance file for the past few months and stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

‘How’s your golf?’

‘I never took it up.’

‘Really?’ he said with surprise. ‘You sounded most keen when we first met.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Quite, quite. Well, you’ve been with us three months and on the whole your performance seems to be excellent. That Jane Eyre malarkey was a remarkable achievement; it did SpecOps the power of good and showed those bean-counters in London that the Swindon office could hold its own.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No, really, I mean it. All this PR work you’ve been doing. The Network is very grateful to you and, more than that, I’m grateful to you. I could have been on the scrapheap if it wasn’t for you. I’d really like to shake you by the hand and—I don’t do this very often, y’know—put you up for membership of my golf club. Full membership, no less—the sort usually reserved for men.’

‘That’s more than generous of you,’ I said, getting up to leave.

‘Sit down, Next—that was just the friendly bit.’

‘There’s more?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, his smile fading. ‘Despite all of that, your conduct over the past two weeks has been less than satisfactory. I’ve had a complaint from Mrs Hathaway34 to say that you failed to spot her forged copy of Cardenio.’

‘I told her it was a forgery in no uncertain terms.’

‘That’s your story, Next. I haven’t located your report on the matter.’

‘I didn’t think it was worth the trouble to write one, sir.’

‘We have to keep on top of paperwork, Next. If the new legislation on SpecOps accountability comes into force we will be under severe scrutiny every time we take a step, so get used to it—and what’s this about you hitting a Neanderthal?’

‘A misunderstanding.’

‘Hm. Is this also a misunderstanding?’

He laid a police charge sheet on the desk.

‘ “Pemissioning a car to be driven by personn of low moral turpithtude.” You lent your car to a lunatic driver, then helped her to escape the law—what on earth did you think you were doing?’

‘The greater good, sir.’

‘No such thing,’ he barked back, handing me a SpecOps claim docket. ‘Officer Tillen at Stores gave me this. It’s your claim for a new Browning automatic.’

I stared dumbly at the docket. My original Browning, the one I had looked after from first issue, had been left in a motorway services somewhere in a patch of Bad Time.

‘I take this very seriously, Next. It says here you “lost” SpecOps property in unsanctioned SO-12 work. Flagrant disregard for Network property makes me very angry, Next. There is our budget to think of, you know.’

‘I thought it would come down to that,’ I murmured.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said: “I’ll retrieve it eventually, sir”.’

‘Maybe so. But lost property has to come under the monthly current expenditure and not the yearly resupply budget. We’ve been a little stretched recently. Your escapade with Jane Eyre was successful but not without cost. All things considered, I am sorry, but I will have to mark your performance as: “F”—”Definite room for improvement”.’

‘An “F”? Sir, I must protest!’

‘Talk’s over, Next. I’m truly sorry. This is quite out of my hands.’

‘Is this an SO-1 way of punishing me?’ I asked. ‘You know I’ve never had anything lower than an “A” in all my eight years with the service!’

‘Raising your voice does you no good at all, young lady,’ replied Hicks in an even tone, wagging his finger as a man might do to his spaniel. ‘This interview is over. I am truly, truly sorry, believe me.’

I got up, mumbled a reply, saluted and made for the door.

‘Wait!’ said Braxton. ‘There’s something else.’

I returned.

‘Yes?’

He handed over a packet of clothes in a polythene bundle.

‘The department is now sponsored by the Toast Marketing Board. You’ll find a hat, T-shirt and jacket in this package. Wear them when you can and be prepared for some corporate entertainment.’

‘Sir!’

‘Don’t complain. If you hadn’t eaten that toast on The Adrian Lush Show they would never have contacted us. Over a million quid in funding—not to be sniffed at with people like you soaking up the funds. Shut the door on the way out, will you?’

The morning’s fun wasn’t over. As I stepped out of Braxton’s office I almost bumped into Flanker.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Next. A word with you, if you don’t mind.’

It wasn’t a request—it was an order. I followed him into an empty interview room and he closed the door.

‘Seems to me you’re in such deep shit your eyes will turn brown, Next.’

‘My eyes are already brown, Flanker.’

‘Then you’re halfway there already. I’ll come straight to the point. You earned six hundred pounds last night to pay back rent.’

‘And?’

‘The service takes a dim view of moonlighting.’

‘It was Stoker at SO-17,’ I told him. ‘I was deputised—all above board.’

Flanker went quiet. His intelligence-gathering had obviously let him down badly.

‘Can I go?’

Flanker sighed.

‘Listen here, Thursday,’ he began in a more moderate tone of voice, ‘we need to know what your father is up to.’

‘What’s the problem? Industrial action standing in the way of next week’s cataclysmic event?’

‘Freelance navigators will sort it out, Next.’

He was bluffing.

‘You have no more idea about the nature of the armageddon than Dad, me, Lavoisier, or anyone else, do you?’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Flanker, ‘but we at SpecOps are far better suited to having no clue at all than you and that chronupt father of yours.’

‘Chronupt?’ I said angrily, getting to my feet. ‘My father? That’s a joke! What is your golden boy Lavoisier doing eradicating my husband, then?’

There was silence for a moment.

‘That’s a very serious accusation,’ observed Flanker. ‘Have you any proof?’

‘Of course not; isn’t that the point of eradication?’

‘I have known Lavoisier for longer than I would care to forget,’ intoned Flanker gravely, ‘and I have never had anything but the highest regard for his integrity. Making wild accusations isn’t going to help your cause one iota.’

I sat down again and sighed. Dad had been right. Accusing Lavoisier of any wrongdoing was pointless.

‘Can I go?’

‘I have nothing to hold you on, Next. But I’ll find something. Every agent is on the make. It’s just a question of digging deep enough.’

‘How did it go?’ asked Bowden when I got back to the office.

‘I got an “F”,’ I muttered, sinking into my chair.

‘Flanker,’ said Bowden, trying on his Eat More Toast cap. ‘Has to be.’

‘How did the stand-up go?’

‘Very well, I think,’ answered Bowden, dropping the cap in the bin. ‘The audience seemed to find it very funny indeed. So much so that they want me to come back as a regular… What are you doing?’

I hurriedly hid under the table, slithering to the floor as quickly as I could. I would have to trust Bowden’s quick wits.

‘Hello!’ said Miles Hawke. ‘Has anyone seen Thursday?’

‘I think she’s at her monthly assessment meeting,’ replied Bowden, whose deadpan delivery was obviously as well suited to lying as it was to stand-up. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘No. Just ask her to get in contact, if she could.’

‘Why don’t you stay and wait?’ said Bowden. I kicked him under the table

‘No, I’d better run along,’ replied Miles. ‘Just tell her I called, won’t you?’

He walked off and I stood up. Bowden, very unusually for him, was giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing—why don’t you want to see him?’

‘Because I might be carrying his baby.’

‘You’re going to have to speak up, I can hardly hear you.’

‘I might,’ I repeated in a hoarse whisper, ‘be carrying his baby!’

‘I thought you said it was Land—What’s the matter now?’

I had dropped to the ground again as Cordelia Flakk walked in. She was scanning the office for me in annoyance, hands on hips.

‘Have you seen Thursday about?’ she asked Bowden. ‘She’s got to meet these people of mine.’

‘I’m really not sure where she is,’ replied Bowden.

‘Really? Then who was it I saw ducking under this table?’

‘Hello, Cordelia,’ I said from beneath the table. ‘I dropped my pencil.’

‘Sure you did.’

I clambered out and sat down at my desk.

‘I expected more from you, Bowden,’ said Flakk crossly, then turned to me. ‘Now, Thursday. We promised these two people they could meet you. Do you really want to disappoint them? Your public, you know.’

‘They’re not my public, Cordelia, they’re yours. You made them for me.’

‘I’ve had to keep them at the Finis for another night,’ said Cordelia. ‘Costs are escalating. They’re downstairs right now. I knew you’d be in for your assessment. How did you do, by the way?’

‘Don’t ask.’

I looked at Bowden, who shrugged. Looking for some sort of rescue, I twisted on my seat, looking over to where Victor was running a possible unpublished sequel to 1984 entitled 1985 through the Prose Analyser. All the other members of the office were busy at their various tasks. It looked as if my PR career was just about to restart.

I sighed. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’

‘Better than hiding under the desk,’ said Bowden. ‘All that jumping around is probably not good for the baby.’

He clapped his hand over his mouth but it was too late.

‘Baby?’ echoed Cordelia. ‘What baby?’

‘Thanks, Bowden.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, congratulations!’ said Cordelia, hugging me. ‘Who is the lucky father?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You mean you haven’t told him yet?’

‘No, I mean I don’t know. My husband, hopefully.’

‘You’re married?’

‘No’

‘But you said—?’

‘Yes, I did,’ I retorted as drily as I could. ‘Confusing, isn’t it?’

‘This is very bad PR,’ muttered Cordelia darkly, sitting on the edge of the desk to steady herself. ‘The leading light of SpecOps knocked up in a bus shelter by someone she doesn’t even know!’

‘Cordelia, it’s not like that, and I wasn’t “knocked up”—and who mentioned anything about bus shelters? Perhaps the best thing would be if you kept this under your hat and we pretended that Bowden never said anything.’

‘Sorry.’

Cordelia leapt to her feet.

‘Good thinking, Next. We can tell everyone you have water retention or an eating disorder brought on by stress.’ Her face fell. ‘No, that won’t work. The Toad will see through it like a shot. Can’t you get married really quickly to someone? What about Bowden? Bowden, would you do the decent thing for the sake of SpecOps?’

‘I’m seeing someone over at SpecOps 13,’ replied Bowden hurriedly.

‘Blast!’ muttered Flakk. ‘Thursday, any ideas?’

But this was an aspect of Bowden I knew nothing about.

‘You never told me you were seeing someone over at SO-13!’

‘I don’t have to tell you everything.’

‘But I’m your partner, Bowden!’

‘Well, you never told me about Miles.’

‘Miles?’ exclaimed Cordelia. ‘The oh-so-handsome-to-die-for Miles Hawke?’

‘Thanks, Bowden.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Cordelia, clapping her hands together. ‘A dazzling couple! “SpecOps wedding of the year!” This is worth soooooo much coverage! Does he know?’

‘No. And you’re not going to tell him. And what’s more—Bowden—it might not even be his.’

‘Which puts us back to square one again!’ responded Cordelia in a huff. ‘Stay here. I’m going to fetch this chap and his daughter. Bowden, don’t let her out of your sight!’

And she was gone.

Bowden stared at me for a moment and then asked:

‘Do you really believe the baby is Landen’s?’

‘I’m hoping.’

‘You’re not married, Thurs. You might think you are but you’re not. I looked at the records Landen Parke-Laine died in 1947.’

‘This time he did. My father and I went—’

‘You don’t have a father, Thursday. There is no record of anyone on your birth certificate. I think maybe you should speak to one of the stressperts.’

‘And end up doing comedy stand-up, arranging pebbles or counting blue cars? No thanks.’

There was a pause.

‘He is very handsome,’ said Bowden.

‘Who?’

‘Miles Hawke, of course.’

‘Oh. Yes, yes, I know he is.’

‘Very polite, very popular.’

‘I know that.’

‘A child without a father—’

‘Bowden, I’m not in love with him and it isn’t his baby—okay?’

‘Okay, okay. Let’s forget it.’

We sat there in silence for a bit. I played with a pencil and Bowden stared out of the window.

‘What about the voices?’

‘Bowden!’

‘Thursday, this is for your own good. You told me you heard them yourself and Officers Hurdyew, Tolkien and Lissning heard you talking and listening to someone in the upstairs corridor.’

‘Well, the voices have stopped,’ I said categorically. ‘Nothing like that will ever happen again.’ [17]

‘Oh, shit.’ [18]

‘What do you mean, “oh, shit”?’

‘Nothing—just, well, that. I’ve got to use the ladies’ room—would you excuse me?’

I left Bowden shaking his head sadly and was soon in the ladies’. I checked that the stalls were empty and then said. ‘Miss Havisham, are you there?’ [19]

‘You must understand, Miss Havisham, that where I come from customs are different from your own. People curse here as a matter of course.’ [20]

‘I’ll be there directly, ma’am!’

I bit my lip and hurriedly rushed out of the ladies’, grabbed my Jurisfiction travel book and my jacket, and was heading back when—

‘Thursday!’ came a loud and strident voice that I knew could only be Flakk’s. ‘I’ve got the winner and his daughter outside in the corridor!’

‘I’m sorry, Cordelia, but I have to go to the loo.’

‘Don’t think I’m going to fall for that one again,’ she growled under her breath.

‘It’s true this time.’

‘And the book?’

‘I always read on the loo.’

She narrowed her eyes at me and I narrowed my eyes back.

‘Very well,’ she said finally, ‘but I’m coming with you.’

She smiled at the two lucky winners of her crazy competition, who smiled back through the half-glazed office door, and we both trotted into the ladies’.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said to me as I locked myself in a cubicle. I opened the book and started to read:

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. ‘Dear, dear Norland!’ said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of them being there…

The small melamine cubicle started to evaporate and in its place was a large park, bathed in the light of a dying sun, the haze softening the shadows and making the house glow in the failing light. There was a light breeze, and in front of the house a lone girl walked, gazing fondly at the—

‘—do you always read aloud in the toilet?’ asked Cordelia from behind the door.

The images evaporated in a flash and I was back in the ladies’.

‘Always,’ I replied. ‘And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll never be finished.’

‘…when shall I cease to regret you!—When I learn to feel a home elsewhere?—Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!—and you, ye well known trees!—but you will continue…’

The house came back again, the young woman talking quietly, matching her words to mine as I drifted into the book. I was now sitting not on a hard SpecOps standard toilet seat but on a white-painted wrought-iron garden bench. I stopped reading when I was certain I was completely within Sense and Sensibility and listened to Marianne as she finished her speech:

‘…and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! But who will remain to enjoy you?’

She sighed dramatically, clasped her hands to her breast and sobbed quietly for a moment or two. Then she took one long look at the large white-painted house and turned to face me.

‘Hello!’ she said in a friendly voice. ‘I haven’t seen you around here before. Would you be working for Juris-thingummywhatsit?’

‘Don’t we have to be careful as to what we say?’ I managed to utter, looking around nervously.

‘Goodness me no!’ exclaimed Marianne with a delightful giggle. ‘The chapter is over and, besides, this book is written in the third person. We are free to do what we please until tomorrow morning when we depart for Devon. The next two chapters are heavy with exposition—I hardly have anything to do, and I say even less! You look confused, poor thing! Have you been into a book before?’

‘I went into Jane Eyre once.’

Marianne frowned overdramatically.

‘Poor, dear, sweet Jane! I would so hate to be a first-person character! Always on your guard, always having people reading your thoughts! Here we do what we are told but think what we wish. It is a much happier circumstance, believe me!’

‘What do you know about Jurisfiction?’ I asked.

‘They will be arriving shortly,’ she explained. ‘Mrs Dashwood might be beastly to Mama but she understands self-preservation. We wouldn’t want to suffer the same tragic fate as Confusion and Conviviality, now, would we?’

‘Is that Austen?’ I queried. ‘I’ve not even heard of it!’

Marianne sat down next to me and rested her hand on my arm.

‘Mama said it was a socialist collective,’ she confided in a hoarse whisper. ‘There was a revolution—they took over the entire book and decided to run it on the principle of every character having an equal part, from the duchess to the cobbler! I ask you! Jurisfiction tried to save it, of course, but it was too far gone—not even Ambrose could do anything. The entire book was… boojummed!’

She said the last word so seriously that I would have laughed had she not been staring at me so intently with her dark brown eyes.

‘How I do talk!’ she said at last, jumping up, clapping her hands and doing a twirl on the lawn. ‘…and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade.…’

She stopped and checked herself, placed her hand over her mouth and nose and uttered an embarrassed girlish giggle.

‘What a loon!’ she muttered. ‘I’ve said that already! Farewell, Miss… Miss… I beg your pardon but I don’t know your name!’

‘It’s Thursday—Thursday Next.’

‘What a strange name!’

She gave a small curtsy in a half-joking way.

‘I am Marianne Dashwood and I welcome you, Miss Next, to Sense and Sensibility.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure I shall enjoy it here.’

‘I’m sure you shall. We all enjoy it a great deal—do you think it shows?’

‘I think it shows a great deal, Miss Dashwood.’

‘Call me Marianne, if it pleases you. May I be so bold as to ask you a favour?’

‘Of course.’

She came closer and sat on the seat with me, holding my hand and staring into my eyes intently.

‘Please, I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask when your own book is set?’

‘I’m not a book person, Miss Dashwood—I’m from the real world.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Please excuse me; I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t real or anything. In that case, when, might I ask, is your own world set?’

I smiled at her strange logic and told her. She leaned closer still.

‘Please excuse the impertinence, but would you bring something back next time you come?’

‘Such as?’

‘Mintolas. I simply adore Mintolas. You’ve heard of them, of course? A bit like Munchies but minty—and, if it’s no trouble, a few pairs of nylon tights. And some AA batteries; a dozen would be perfect.’

‘Sure. Anything else?’

Marianne thought for a moment.

‘Elinor would so hate me asking favours from a stranger, but I happen to know she has an inordinate fondness for Marmite—and some real coffee for Mama.’

I told her I would do what I could. She smiled again, thanked me profusely, pulled on a leather flying helmet and goggles that she had secreted within her shawl, held my hand for a moment and then was gone, running across the lawn.