The Well Of Lost Plots Part 23

'Overheat?' I asked. 'My head would have got hot?'

'More than hot. Enough energy would have been released to write about fourteen novels.'

'I'm an apprentice, Plum, tell me in simple terms.'

He looked at me seriously.

'There wouldn't be much left of the hat or the person wearing it. It happens occasionally on the Mk IVs it would have been seen as an accident. Good thing there was was a broken cord.' a broken cord.'

He whistled softly.

'Nifty piece of work, too. Someone who knew what they were doing.'

'That's very interesting,' I said slowly. 'Can you give me a list of people who might have been able to do this sort of work?'

'Take a few days.'

'Worth the wait. I'll call back.'

I met up with Miss Havisham and the Bellman in the Jurisfiction offices. The Bellman nodded a greeting and consulted his ever-present clipboard.

'Looks like a dog day, ladies.'

'Thurber again?'

'No, Mansfield Park Mansfield Park. Lady Bertram's pet pug has been run over and needs to be replaced.'

'Again?' replied Havisham. 'That must be the sixth. I wish she'd be more careful.'

'Seventh. You can pick it up from stores.'

He turned his attention to me.

'Miss Havisham says you are ready to take the practical test to bring you up from apprentice to restricted agent.'

'I'm ready,' I replied, thinking I was anything but.

'I'm sure you are,' answered the Bellman thoughtfully, 'but it is is a bit soon if it weren't for the shortage caused by Mrs Nakajima's retirement, I think you would remain as an apprentice for a few more months. a bit soon if it weren't for the shortage caused by Mrs Nakajima's retirement, I think you would remain as an apprentice for a few more months.

Well,' he sighed, 'can't be helped. I've had a look at the duty roster and I think I've found an a.s.signment that should test your mettle. It's an Internal Plot Adjustment order from the Council of Genres.'

Despite my natural feelings of caution, I was also, to my shame, excited excited by a practical test of my abilities. by a practical test of my abilities.

d.i.c.kens? Hardy? Perhaps even Shakespeare.

' Shadow the Sheepdog Shadow the Sheepdog,' announced the Bellman, 'by Enid Blyton. It needs to have a happy ending.'

' Shadow ... the Sheepdog Shadow ... the Sheepdog,' I repeated slowly, hoping my disappointment didn't show. 'Okay. What do you want me to do?'

'Simple. As it stands, Shadow is blinded by the barbed wire, so he can't be sold to the American film producer. Up ending because he isn't sold, down ending because he is blinded and useless. All we need to do is to have him miraculously regain his sight the next time he goes to the vet on page ...' He consulted his clipboard. '... two thirty-two.'

'And,' I said cautiously, not wanting the Bellman to realise how unprepared I was, 'what plan are we going to use?'

'Swap dogs,' replied the Bellman simply. 'All collies look pretty much the same.'

'What about Vestigial Plot Memory?' asked Havisham. 'Do we have any smoothers?'

'It's all on the job sheet,' returned the Bellman, tearing off a sheet of paper and handing it to me. 'You do know all about smoothers, of course?'

'Of course!' I replied.

'Good. Any more questions?'

I shook my head.

'Excellent!' exclaimed the Bellman. 'Just one more thing. Bradshaw is investigating the Perkins incident.

Would you make sure he gets your reports as soon as possible?'

'Of course!'

'Er ... good.'

He made a few 'must get on' noises and left.

As soon as he had gone I said to Havisham: 'Do you think I'm ready for this, ma'am?'

'Thursday,' she said in her most serious voice, 'listen to me. Jurisfiction has need of agents who can be trusted to do the right thing.' She looked around the room. 'Sometimes it is difficult to know whom we can trust. Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous like you are the last bastion of defence against those who would mean the BookWorld harm.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning you can stop asking so many questions and do as you're told just pa.s.s this practical first time.

Understand?'

'Yes, Miss Havisham.'

'That's settled, then,' she added. 'Anything else?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'What's a smoother?'

'Do you not read your TravelBook?'

'It's quite long,' I pleaded. 'I've been consulting it whenever possible but have still got no farther than the preface.'

'Well,' she began as we jumped to Wemmick's Stores in the lobby of the Great Library, 'plots have a sort of inbuilt memory. They can spring spring back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.' back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.'

'Like time,' I murmured, thinking about my father.

'If you say so,' returned Miss Havisham. 'So on Internal Plot Adjustment duties we often have to have a smoother a secondary device that reinforces the primary plot swing. We changed the end of Conrad's Lord Jim Lord Jim, you know. Originally, he runs away. A bit weak. We thought it would be better if Jim delivered himself to Chief Doramin as he had pledged following Brown's ma.s.sacre.'

'That didn't work?'

'No. The chief kept on forgiving him. We tried everything. Insulting the chief, tweaking his nose after the forty-third attempt we were getting desperate; Bradshaw was almost pulling his hair out.'

'So what did you do?'

'We retrospectively had the chief's son die in the ma.s.sacre. It did the trick. The chief had no trouble shooting Jim after that.'

I mused about this for a moment.

'How did Jim take it?' I asked. 'The decision for him to die, I mean?'

'He was the one who asked for the plot adjustment in the first place,' murmured Havisham. 'He thought it was the only honourable thing to do mind you, the chief's son wasn't exactly over the moon about it.'

'Ah,' I said, pondering that here in the BookWorld the pencil of life occasionally did did have a rubber on the other end. have a rubber on the other end.

'So you'll send a cheque for a hundred pounds to the farmer, and buy his pigs for double the market rate that way, he won't need the cash and won't want to resell Shadow to the film producer. Get it? Good afternoon, Mr Wemmick.'

We had arrived at the stores. Wemmick himself was a short man, a native of Great Expectations Great Expectations, aged about forty with a pockmarked face. He greeted us enthusiastically.

'Good afternoon, Miss Havisham, Miss Next I trust all is well?'

'Quite well, Mr Wemmick. I understand you have a few canines for us?'

'Indeed,' replied the storekeeper, pointing to where two dogs were attached to a hook in the wall by their leads.

'Pug, Lady Bertram's, to be replaced, one. Shadow, sheepdog, sighted, to swap with existing dog, blind, one. Cheque for the farmer, value: one hundred pounds sterling, one. Cash to buy pigs, forty-two pounds, ten s.h.i.+llings and fourpence. Sign here.'

The two dogs panted and wagged their tails. The collie had his eyes bound with a bandage.

'Any questions?'

'Do we have a cover story for this cheque?' I asked.

'Use your imagination. I'm sure you'll think of something.'

'Wait a moment,' I said, alarm bells suddenly ringing, 'aren't you coming with me to supervise?'

'Not at all!' Havisham grinned with a strange look in her eye. 'a.s.sessed work has to be done solo; I'll mark you on your report and the successful or not realigned story within the book. This is so simple even you you can't mess it up.' can't mess it up.'

'Couldn't I do Lady Bertram's pug?' I asked, trying to make it sound like something hard and of great consequence.

'Out of the question! Besides, I don't do children's books any more not after the incident with Larry the Lamb. But since Shadow Shadow is out of print no one will notice if you make a pig's ear of it. Remember that Jurisfiction is an honourable establishment and you should reflect that in your bearing and countenance. is out of print no one will notice if you make a pig's ear of it. Remember that Jurisfiction is an honourable establishment and you should reflect that in your bearing and countenance.

Be resolute in your work and fair and just. Destroy grammasites with extreme prejudice and shun any men with amorous intentions.'

She thought for a moment.

'Or any any intentions, come to that. Have you got your TravelBook to enable you to jump back?' intentions, come to that. Have you got your TravelBook to enable you to jump back?'

I patted my breast pocket where the slim volume was kept and she was gone, only to return a few moments later to swap dogs and vanish again. I was just about to jump to the second floor when a voice made me turn.

'h.e.l.lo!' he said. 'All well?'

It was the Ches.h.i.+re Cat. He was sitting on top of the Boojumorial, grinning fit to burst.

'I'm just about to do my practical.'

'Excellent!' said the Cat. 'Whereabouts?'

'Shadow the Sheepdog.'

'Enid Blyton, 1950, Collins, two fifty-six pages, ill.u.s.trated,' muttered the Cat, to whom every book in the Library was a revered friend. 'Apart from the D-words in it, for Blyton it's not too bad at all a product of its time, one might argue. What are you going to do with it?'

'Happier ending,' I explained. 'I have to swap dogs.'

'Ah!' said the Cat, wrinkling his whiskers and grinning some more. 'Just like the job we did on Gipson's Old Yeller Old Yeller last year.' last year.'

' Old Yeller Old Yeller?' I repeated incredulously. 'The new ending is the happy happy one?!' one?!'

'You should have read it before before we changed it. Sad wasn't the word. Children were going into traumatic shock it was so depressing.' we changed it. Sad wasn't the word. Children were going into traumatic shock it was so depressing.'

And he blew his nose so violently he vanished with a faint pop pop.

I waited for a moment in case he reappeared and, when he didn't, read my way diligently to the second floor of the Library and picked Shadow the Sheepdog Shadow the Sheepdog off the shelf. I paused. I was nervous and my palms had started to sweat. I scolded myself. How hard could a plot readjustment in an Enid Blyton be? I took a deep breath and, notwithstanding the simplistic nature of the novel, opened the slim volume with an air of serious trepidation as though it were off the shelf. I paused. I was nervous and my palms had started to sweat. I scolded myself. How hard could a plot readjustment in an Enid Blyton be? I took a deep breath and, notwithstanding the simplistic nature of the novel, opened the slim volume with an air of serious trepidation as though it were War and Peace War and Peace.

19.

Shadow the Sheepdog ' Shadow the Sheepdog Shadow the Sheepdog, the story of a supremely loyal and intelligent sheepdog in a rural pre-war countryside, was published by Collins in 1950. A compulsive scribbler from her early teens, Enid Blyton found escape from her own unhappy childhood in the simple tales she wove for children. She has been republished in revised forms to suit modern tastes and has consistently remained popular over five decades. The independently minded children of her stones live in an idealised world of eternal summer holidays, adventure, high tea, ginger beer, cake and grown-ups with so little intelligence that they need everything explained to them something that is not so very far from the truth.'

MILLON DE FLOSS Enid Blyton Enid Blyton I read myself into the book, halfway down page 231. Johnny, the farmer's boy who was Shadow's owner and co-protagonist, would be having Shadow's eyes checked in a few days, so a brief reconnaissance of the area seemed like a good idea. If I could persuade persuade rather than order the vet to swap the dogs, then so much the better. I alighted in a town which looked like some sort of forties rural idyll a mix of Warwicks.h.i.+re and the Dales. All green gra.s.s, show-quality cattle, yellow-lichened stone walls, suns.h.i.+ne and healthy-looking, smiling people. Horses pulled carts laden high with hay down the main street and the odd s.h.i.+ny motor-car puttered past. Pies cooled on window sills and children played with hoops and tinplate steam engines. The smell in the breeze was of freshly mown gra.s.s, clean linen and cooking. Here was a world of high tea, tasty trifles, zero crime, eternal summers and boundless good health. I suspected living here might be quite enjoyable for about a week. rather than order the vet to swap the dogs, then so much the better. I alighted in a town which looked like some sort of forties rural idyll a mix of Warwicks.h.i.+re and the Dales. All green gra.s.s, show-quality cattle, yellow-lichened stone walls, suns.h.i.+ne and healthy-looking, smiling people. Horses pulled carts laden high with hay down the main street and the odd s.h.i.+ny motor-car puttered past. Pies cooled on window sills and children played with hoops and tinplate steam engines. The smell in the breeze was of freshly mown gra.s.s, clean linen and cooking. Here was a world of high tea, tasty trifles, zero crime, eternal summers and boundless good health. I suspected living here might be quite enjoyable for about a week.

I was nodded at by a pa.s.ser-by.

'Beautiful day!' she said politely.

'Yes,' I replied. 'My-'

'Rain later?' she enquired.

I looked up at the small puffy clouds that stretched away to the horizon.