'Where do you hide a pebble, Sweetpea?'
'On a beach.'
'And where do you hide a thirteenth-century impostor saint?'
'With . . . lots of other thirteenth-century impostor saints?'
He smiled.
'You sent all twenty-eight of them forward just to hide St Zvlkx?'
'Twenty-seven, actually — one of them was real. But I didn't do it alone. I needed someone to whip up a timephoon in the Dark Ages as cover. Someone with remarkable skills as a time traveller. An expert who can surf the timeline with a skill I will never possess.'
'Me?'
He chuckled.
'No, silly — Friday.'
The little boy looked up when he heard his name. He chewed the crayon, made a face and spat the bits on Pickwick, who jumped up in fright and ran away to hide.
'Meet the future head of the ChronoGuard, Sweetpea. How did you think he survived Landen's eradication?'
I stared at the little boy, who stared back, and smiled.
Dad looked at his watch.
'Well, I've got to go. Nelson's up to his old tricks again. Time waits for no man, as we say.'
44
Final Curtain
NEANDERTHALS MAKE NEW YEAR'S 'AT RISK' LIST
Neanderthals, the once extinct cousin of Homo sapiens, were yesterday granted 'at risk' status along with the edible dormouse and poorly crested grebe. Chancellor Mr Redmond van de Poste of the Toast Party granted them this honour in recognition of their work during the Swindon Reading Superhoop. Mr van de Poste met with Neanderthals and read from a specially prepared speech. 'Personally, I really don't give a button over your status,' he told them, 'but it's politically expedient and vote-winning to be doing something to help lowly clods like you gain some sort of limited Incoming freedom.' His speech was received warmly by the Neanderthals, who were expecting half-truths and disinformation. 'An application to become "endangered", continued Mr van de Poste, 'will be looked at on its merits in the new year — if we can be bothered.'
Article in the Swindon Daily Eyestrain, 7 September 1988
I was well enough to be given an award three weeks later at a mayoral lunch. Lord Volescamper presented the whole Superhoop team with a special 'Swindon Star' medal, especially struck for the purpose. The only Neanderthal to show up was Stig, who understood what it meant to me, even if he couldn't truly understand the concept of individual aggrandisement.
There was a party afterwards and everyone wanted to chat to me, mostly to ask me whether I would play any more professional croquet. I met Handley Paige again; he jumped when he saw me and downed a drink nervously.
'I've decided not to kill off my Emperor Zhark character,' he announced quickly, 'I'd just like to make that point right now, in case anyone might think I was going to stop writing Zhark books, which I'm not. Not at all. Not ever.'
He looked around warily.
'I'm sorry?' I said. 'I'm not sure I understand.'
'Oh . . . right,' he replied sarcastically, tried to drink from his empty glass and then strode off to the bar.
'What was all that about?' asked Landen.
'Search me.'
Spike was at the party too and he sidled up to me as I was fetching another drink.
'What did she say to you when she took your place?'
I turned to face him; I wasn't surprised that he knew Cindy had replaced me. The semi-dead was his field of expertise, after all.
'She said that she wanted to make up for some of the misery she had caused, and she knew she would never hold either you or Betty again.'
'You could have refused her, but I'm glad you didn't. I loved her, but she was rotten to the core.'
He fell silent for a moment and I touched him on the arm.
'Not entirely rotten, Spike. She loved you both very much.'
He looked at me and smiled.
'I know. You did the right thing, Thursday. Thank you.'
And he hugged me, and was gone.
I answered lots more questions regarding the Superhoop match and when I decided enough was enough I asked Landen to take me home.
Landen drove the Speedster, with Friday in a baby seat in the back, right next to Pickwick, who didn't want to be left alone now that Alan had gone.
'Land?'
'Mm?'
'Did you ever think it odd that I survived?'
'I'm grateful that you did, of course—
'Stop the car a minute'
'Why?'
'Just do as I say.'
He pulled up and I very carefully climbed out and walked towards where two familiar figures were sitting on the pavement outside a Goliathe coffee shop. I approached silently and sat down next to the larger of the two before he'd even noticed. He looked round and jumped visibly when he saw me.
'Once,' said a sad and familiar voice, 'you would never have been able to sneak up on a Gryphon!'
I smiled. He was a creature with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. He wore spectacles and a scarf under his trenchcoat, which somewhat dented his otherwise fearsome appearance. He was fictional, to be sure, but he was also head of jurisfiction's legal team, my lawyer — and a friend.
'Gryphon!' I said with some surprise. 'What are you doing in the Outland?'
'Here to see you,' he whispered, looking around and lowering his voice. 'Have you met Mock Turtle? He's now my number two at the legal desk.'
He gestured towards where a turtle with the head of a calf was staring mournfully into space. He was, like the Gryphon, straight out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland.
'How do you do?'
'Okay — I suppose.' The Mock Turtle sighed, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.
'So what's up?' I asked.
'It's quite serious — too serious for the footnoterphone. And I needed an excuse to do some Outlander research on traffic islands. Fascinating things.'
I felt hot and prickly all of a sudden. Not about traffic islands, of course, about my conviction. The fiction infraction. I had changed the ending of Jane Eyre and was found guilty by the Court of Hearts. All that was missing was the sentence.
'What did I get?'
'It's not that bad,' exclaimed the Gryphon, snapping his fingers at the Mock Turtle, who passed him a sheet of paper now stained with his own tears.
I took the paper and scanned the semi-blurred contents.
'It's a bit unusual,' admitted the Gryphon. 'I think the bit about the gingham is unnaturally cruel — might be the cause of an appeal on its own.'
I stared at the paper.
'Twenty years of my life in blue gingham,' I murmured.
'And you can't die until you've read the ten most boring books,' added the Gryphon.
'My gran had to do the same,' I explained, feeling just a little puzzled.
'Not possible,' said the Mock Turtle, drying his eyes. 'This sentence is unique, as befits the crime. You can take the twenty years of gingham any time you want — not necessarily now.'
'But my gran had this punishment—!'
'You're mistaken,' replied the Gryphon firmly, retrieving the paper, folding it and placing it in his pocket, 'and we had better be off. Will you be at Bradshaw's golden wedding anniversary?'
'Y-es,' I said slowly, still confused.
'Good. Page 221, Bradshaw and the Diamond of M'shala. It's bring a bottle and a banana. Drag your husband along. I know he's real but no one's perfect — we'd all like to meet him.'
'Thank you. What about—
'Goodness!' said the Gryphon, consulting a large pocket watch. 'Is that the time? We've got a lobster quadrille to perform in ten pages!'
The Mock Turtle cheered up a bit when he heard this, and in a moment they were gone.
I walked slowly back to where Landen and Friday were waiting for me in the car.
'Dah!' said Friday really loudly.
'There!' said Landen. 'He most definitely said "Dad"!'
He noticed my furrowed brow.
'What's
up?'
'Landen, my gran on my mother's side died in 1968.'
'And?'
'Well, if she died then, and Dad's mum died in 1979—
'Yes?'
'Then who is that up at the Goliath Twilight Homes?"
'I've never met her,' explained Landen. 'I thought "gran" was a term of endearment.'
I didn't answer. I had thought she was my gran but she wasn't. In fact, I'd known her only about three years. Before that I had never set eyes on her. Perhaps that's less than accurate. I had seen her whenever I stared into a mirror, but she had been a lot younger. Gran wasn't my gran. Gran was me.
Landen drove me up to the Goliath Twilight Homes and I went in alone, leaving Landen and Friday in the car. I made my way with heavily beating heart to her room and found the ward sister bending over the gently dozing form of the old, old woman that I would eventually become.
'Is she suffering much?'
'The painkillers keep it under control,' replied the nurse. 'Family?'
'Yes,' I replied, 'we're very close.'
'She's a remarkable woman,' murmured the nurse. 'It's a wonder she's still with us at all.'
'It was a punishment,' I said.
'Pardon?'
'Never mind. It won't be long now.'
I moved closer to the bed and she opened her eyes.
'Hello, young Thursday!' said Gran, waving at me weakly. She took off the oxygen mask, was roundly scolded by the nurse, and put it back on again.
'You're not my gran, are you?' I said slowly, sitting on the side of the bed.
She smiled benevolently and placed her small, pink, wrinkled hand on mine.
'I am Granny Next,' she replied, just not yours. When did you find out?'
'I got my sentencing from the Gryphon just now.'
Now that I knew, she seemed more familiar to me than ever before. I even noticed the small scar on her chin from the charge of the Armoured Brigade way back in '72, and the well-healed scar above her eye.
'Why did I never realise?' I asked her in confusion. 'My real grandmothers are both dead — and I always knew that.'
The tired old woman smiled again.
'You don't have Aornis in your head without learning a few tricks, my dear. My time with you has not been wasted. Our husband would not have survived without it and Aornis could have erased everything when we were living in Caversham Heights. Where is he, by the way?'
'He's looking after the boy Friday outside.'
'Ah!'
She looked into my eyes for a moment, then said:
'Will you tell him I love him?'
'Of course.'
'Well, now that you know who I am, I think it's time to go. I did find the ten most boring classics — and I've almost finished the last.'
'I thought you had to have an "epiphanic moment" before you departed? A last exciting resolution to your life?'
'This is it, young Thursday. But it's not mine, it's ours. Now, pick up that copy of The Faerie Queene. I am one hundred and ten and it is well past my out-time.'
I looked across at the table and picked up the book. I had never read the end — nor even past page forty. It was that dull.
'Don't you have to read it?' I asked.
'Me, you, what's the difference?' She giggled, something that turned into a weak cough that wouldn't stop until I had leaned her gently upright.
'Thank you, my dear!' she gasped when the fit had passed. 'There is only a paragraph to go. The page is marked.'
I opened the book but didn't want to read the text. My eyes filled with tears and I looked at the old woman, only to be met by a soft smile.
'It is time,' she said simply, 'but I envy you — you have so many wonderful years ahead of you! Read, please.'
I wiped away my tears and had a sudden thought.
'But if I read this now,' I began slowly, 'then when I am one hundred and ten years old I will already have read it, and then I'd be — you know — just before the last sentence before I — that is, the younger me—' I paused, thinking about the seemingly impossible paradox.
'Dear Thursday!' said the old woman kindly. 'Always so linearl It does work, believe me. Things are just so much weirder than we can know. You'll find out in due course, as I did.'
She smiled benignly and I opened the book.
'Is there anything you need to tell me?'
She smiled again.
'No, my dear. Some things are best left unsaid. You and Landen will have a wonderful time together, mark my words. Read on, young Thursday!'
There was a ripple and my father was standing on the other side of the bed.
'Dad!' said the old woman. 'Thank you for coming!'
'I wouldn't miss it, o daughter my daughter,' he said softly, bending down to kiss her on the forehead and hold her hand. 'I've brought a few people with me.'
And there he was, the young man whom I had seen with Lavoisier at my wedding party. He laid a hand on hers and kissed her.
'Friday!' said the old woman. 'How old are your children at the moment?'
'Here, Mum. Ask them yourself!'
And there they were, next to Friday's wife, who he had yet to meet. She was a one-year-old somewhere, with no idea of her future, either. There were two children with her. Two grandchildren of mine who had yet to be even thought of, let alone born. I continued reading The Faerie Queene, slowly pacing myself as more people rippled in to see the old woman before she left.
'Tuesday!' said the old woman as another person appeared. It was my daughter. We'd vaguely talked about her but that was all — and here she was, a sprightly sixty-year-old. She had brought her children too, and one of them had brought hers.
In all, I think I saw twenty-eight descendants of mine that afternoon, all of them sombre, and only one of them yet born. When they had said their goodbyes and rippled from sight, other visitors appeared to see her. There was Emperor and Empress Zhark, and Mr and Mrs Bradshaw, who were never to age at all. The Cheshire Cat came too, and several Miss Havishams, as well as a delegation of lobsters from the distant future, a large man smoking a cigar and several other people who rippled in and out in a polite manner. I carried on reading, holding her other hand as the fire of life slowly faded from her tired body. By the time I had started on the final verse of The Faerie Queene her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. The last of the guests had gone and only my father and I were left.
I finished the verse and my sentence was complete. Twenty years of gingham and ten boring books. I closed the volume and laid it on the bed next to her. Already her face had drained of colour, and her mouth was partly open. I was alerted by a quiet sniffle near me. I had never seen my father cry before but now large tears rolled silently down his cheeks. He thanked me and departed, leaving me alone with the woman in the bed, the nurse discreetly waiting at the door. I felt sad in that I had lost a valued companion, but no great sense of grief. After all, I was still very much alive. I had learned from my own father's death many years ago that the end of one's life and dying are two very different things indeed, and took solace in that.
'Are you okay?' asked Landen when I got back to the car. 'You look as though you've seen a ghost!'
'Several,' I replied. 'I think I just saw my whole life pass in front of my eyes.'
'Do I feature?'
'Quite a lot, Land.'
'I had my life flash in front of me once,' he said. 'Trouble is, I blinked and missed all the good bits.'
'It will need more than a blink,' I told him, nuzzling his ear. 'How's the little man?'
'Tired after a lot of pointing.'
I looked into the back seat. Friday was spark out and snoring.
Landen started the car and pulled out of the parking space.
'Who was the old woman, by the way?' he asked as we turned into the main road. 'You never did tell me.'
I thought for a moment.
'Someone who knew me really well and turned up when it mattered.'
'I have someon
e like that,' said Landen, 'and if she's feeling up to it, I'd like to take her out for dinner. Where do you fancy?1
I thought of the old woman in the bed, dressed in gingham, hanging on for the last verse, and all the people who had come to see her off. Life, I decided, would be good, and more than that, unusual.
'If I'm with you,' I told him tenderly, 'SmileyBurger is the Ritz.'
Credits
My great thanks to Maggy and Stewart Roberts for the illustrations in this book.
My thanks to Mari Roberts for huge quantities of research on everything from the Danes to Hamlet to conflict resolution and the piano gag, and for companionship, and love.
Mr Shgakespeafe's quotes and Hamlet kindly supplied by Shakespeare (William) Inc.
Lorem Ipsum usage suggested by Swaim & Rogan.
For the purposes of this narrative, it should be noted that Zeffirelli's excellent version of Hamlet starring Mel Gibson and Glenn Close was made in 1987, not 1991 as previously thought.
My grateful thanks to John Sutherland and Cedric Watts for their 'Puzzles in Literature' series, which continues to amuse and delight, and to Nome Epstein for her excellent Friendly Shakespeare, which is every bit as the title suggests. Also to the Reduced Shakespeare Company for much-needed Bard-related tomfoolery in times of stress.
Pulp Western research by Gillian Taylor, author of Darrow's Word and many others. Interweb: http://www.gillian-f-taylor.co.uk.
My grateful thanks to Landen Parke-Laine for agreeing to undertake a guest first-person appearance at short notice.
No penguins were killed or pianos destroyed in order to write this book.
The penguin meal on page 147 and the piano incident on page 314 were merely fictional narrative devices and have no basis in fact.
My apologies to Danish people everywhere for the fictional slur undertaken in the pages of this book. I would like to point out that this was for satirical purposes only, and I like Denmark a lot, especially rollmops, bacon, Lego, Bang & Olufsen, the Faeroes, Karen Blixen — and, of course, Hamlet, the greatest Dane of all.
Mandatory toast information, as required by current toast legislation: Bread was originated in a Panasonic SD2O6 bread-maker, sliced with an Ikea bread knife on a home-made bread board and toasted in a Dualit model 3CBGB. Spread was Utterly Butterly and Seville marmalade was home made.
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