The Well of Lost Plots

Miss Havisham was a bit like a strict parent, your worst teacher and a newly appointed South American dictator all rolled into one. Which wasn't to say I didn't like her or respect her � it was just that I felt I was still nine whenever she spoke to me.

'So why did we sing "Jerusalem" to get rid of them?'

'As I said, those grammasites were Verbisoids,' she replied without looking up, 'and a Verbisoid, in common with many language students, hates and fears irregular verbs � they much prefer consuming regularverbs with the "ed" word endings. Strong irregulars such as "to sing" with their internal vowel changes � we will sing, we sang, we have sung � tend to scramble their tiny minds.'

'Any irregular verb frightens them off?' I asked with interest.

'Pretty much; but some irregulars are more easy to demonstrate than others � we could cut, I suppose, or even be, but then the proceedings change into something akin to a desperate game of charades � far easier to just sing and have done 'with it.'

'What about if we were to go? I ventured, thinking practically for once. 'There can't be anything more irregular than go, went, gone, can there?'

'Because,' replied Miss Havisham, her patience eroding by the second, 'they might misconstrue it as walked � note the "ed" ending?'

'Not if we ran," I added, not wanting to let this go, 'that's irregular, too.'

Miss Havisham stared at me icily.

'Of course we could. But ran might be seen in the eyes of a hungry Verbisoid to be either trotted, galloped, raced, rushed, hurried, hastened, sprinted or even departed.'

'Ah,' I said, realising that catching Miss Havisham out was about as likely as nailing Banquo's ghost to a coffee table, 'yes, it might, mightn't it?'

'Look,' said Miss Havisham, softening slightly, 'if running away killed grammasites there wouldn't be a single one left. Stick to "Jerusalem" and you won't go far wrong � just don't try it with adjectivores or the parataxis; they'd probably join in � and then eat you.'

The elevator stopped on the eleventh sub-basement, the doors opened and a large Painted Jaguar got in with her son, who had a paddy-paw full of prickles and was complaining bitterly that he had been tricked by a hedgehog and a tortoise, who had both escaped. The Mother Jaguar shook her head sadly, looked to heaven in exasperation and then turned to her son.

'Son, son,' she said, ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'what have you been doing that you shouldn't have?'

'So,' said Miss Havisham as the elevator moved off again, 'how are you getting along in that frightful Caversham Heights book?'

'Well, thank you, Miss Havisham,' I muttered, 'the people in it are worried that their book will be demolished from under their feet.'

'With good reason,' replied Havisham. 'I've read it. Hundreds of books like Heights are demolished every day. If you stopped to waste any sympathy, you'd go nuts � so don't. It's man eat man in the Well. I'd keep yourself to yourself and don't make too many friends � they have a habit of dying just when you get to like them. It always happens that way. It's a narrative thing.'

'Heights isn't a bad place to live,' I ventured, hoping to elicit a bit of compassion.

'Doubtless,' she murmured, staring off into the middle distance. 'I remember when I was in the Well, when they were building Great Expectations. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world when they told me I would be working with Charles Dickens. Top of my class at Generic College and, without wanting to seem immodest, something of a beauty. I thought I would make an admirable young Estella � both refined and beautiful, haughty and proud, yet ultimately overcoming the overbearing crabbiness of her cantankerous benefactor to find true love.'

'So � what happened?'

'I wasn't tall enough.'

'Tall enough? For a book? Isn't that like having the wrong hair colour for the wireless?'

'They gave the part to a little strumpet who was on salvage from a demolished Thackeray. Little cow. It's no wonder I treat her so rotten � the part should have been mine!'

She fell into silence.

'Let me get this straight,' said the Painted Jaguar, who was having a bit of trouble telling the difference between a hedgehog and a tortoise, 'if it's slow-and-solid I drop him in the water and then scoop him out of his shell�'

'Son, son!' said his mother, ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'now attend to me and remember what I say. A hedgehog curls himself up into a ball and his prickles stick out every way�'

'Did you get the Jurisfiction exam papers I sent you?' asked Miss Havisham. 'I've got your practical booked for the day after tomorrow.'

'Oh!' I said.

'Problems?' she asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

'No, ma'am, I just feel a bit unprepared � I think I might make a pig's ear of it.'

'I disagree,' she replied, staring at the floor indicator. 'I know you'll make a pig's ear of it. But wheels within wheels. All I ask is you don't make a fool of yourself or lose your life � now that would be awkward.'

'So,' said the Painted Jaguar, rubbing his head, 'if it can roll itself into a ball it must be a tortoise and�'

'AHHH!' cried the Mother Jaguar, lashing her tail angrily. 'Completely wrong. Miss Havisham, what am I to do with this boy?'

'I have no idea,' she replied. 'All men are dolts, from where I'm standing.'

The Painted Jaguar looked crestfallen and stared at the floor.

'Can I make a suggestion?' I asked.

'Anything!' replied the Mother Jaguar.

'If you make a rhyme out of it he might be able to remember.'

The Mother Jaguar sighed.

'It won't help. Yesterday he forgot he was a Painted Jaguar. He makes my spots ache, really he does.'

'How about this?' I said, making up a rhyme on the spot:

'Can't curl, but can swim �
Slow-Solid, that's him!
Curls up, but can't swim �
Stickly-Prickly, that's him!'

The Mother Jaguar stopped lashing her tail and asked me to write it down. She was still trying to get her son to remember it when the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and we got out.

'I thought we were going to the Jurisfiction offices?' I said as we walked along the corridors of the Great Library, the wooden shelves groaning under the weight of the collected imaginative outpourings of nearly two millennia.

'The next roll-call is tomorrow,' she replied, stopping at a shelf and dropping the grammasites' waistcoats into a heap before picking out a roughly bound manuscript, 'and I told Perkins you'd help him feed the minotaur.'

'You did?' I asked, slightly apprehensively.

'Of course. Fictionalzoology is a fascinating subject and, believe me, it's an area about which you should know more.'

She handed me the book which, I noticed, was hand-written.

'It's codeword protected,' announced Havisham, 'mumble Sapphire before you read yourself in.'

She gathered up the waistcoats again.

'I'll pick you up in about an hour. Perkins will be waiting for you on the other side. Please pay attention and don't let him talk you into looking after any rabbits. Don't forget the password � you'll not get in or out without it.'

'Sapphire,' I repeated.

'Very good,' she said, and vanished.

I placed the book on one of the reading desks and sat down. The marble busts of writers that dotted the Library seemed to glare at me and I was just about to start reading when I noticed, high up on the shelf opposite, an ethereal form that was coalescing, wraith-like, in front of my eyes. At home this might be considered a matter of great pith and moment, but here it was merely the Cheshire Cat making one of his celebrated appearances.