The Well of Lost Plots

19 Shadow the Sheepdog

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 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 Warwickshire and the Dales. All green grass, show-quality cattle, yellow-lichened stone walls, sunshine and healthy-looking, smiling people. Horses pulled carts laden high with hay down the main street and the odd shiny 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 grass, 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 passer-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.

'I shouldn't have thought so,' I began, 'but can you—'

'Well, be seeing you!' said the woman politely, and was gone.

I found an alleyway and tied the sheepdog to a downpipe; it was neither useful nor necessary to lead a dog around town for the next few hours. I walked carefully down the road, past a family butcher's, a tea room and a sweet shop selling nothing but gobstoppers, bull's-eyes, ginger beer, lemonade and liquorice. A few doors farther on I found a newsagent and post office combined. The outside of the small shop was liberally covered with enamel signs advertising Fry's chocolates, Colman's starch, Wyncarnis tonic, Ovaltine and Lyons cakes. A small sign told me I could use the telephone, and a rack of postcards shared the pavement with boxes of fresh veg. There was also a display of newspapers, the headlines reflecting the inter-war politics of the book.

Britain voted favourite empire tenth year running, said one. Foreigners untrustworthy, study shows, said another. A third led with: 'Spiffing' — new buzzword sweeps nation.

I posted the cheque to Johnny's father with a covering letter explaining that it was an old loan repaid. Almost immediately a postman appeared on a bicycle and removed the letter — the only one in the postbox, I noted — with the utmost reverence, taking it into the post office where I could hear cries of wonderment. There weren't many letters in Shadow, I assumed. I stood outside the shop for a moment, watching the townsfolk going about their business. Without warning one of the carthorses decided to drop a huge pile of dung in the middle of the road. In a trice a villager had run across with a bucket and shovel and removed the offending article almost as soon as it had happened. I watched for a while and then set off to find the local auctioneers.

'So let me get this straight,' said the auctioneer, a heavy-set and humourless man with a monocle screwed into his eye, 'you want to buy pigs at treble the going rate? Why?'

'Not anyone's pigs,' I replied wearily, having spent the last half-hour trying to explain what I wanted, 'Johnny's father's pigs.'

'Quite out of the question,' muttered the auctioneer, getting to his feet and walking to the window. He did it a lot, I could tell — there was a worn patch right through the carpet to the floorboards beneath, but only from his chair to the window. There was another worn patch from the door to a side table — the use of which I was yet to understand. Considering his limitations I guessed the auctioneer was no more than a C-9 Generic — it explained the difficulty in persuading him to change anything.

'We do things to a set formula here,' added the auctioneer, 'and we don't very much like change.'

He walked back to his desk, turned to face me and wagged a reproachful finger.

'And believe me, if you try anything a bit rum at the auction I can discount your bid.'

We stared at each other. This wasn't working.

'Tea and cake?' asked the auctioneer, walking to the window again.

'Thank you,' I replied.

'Splendid!' he enthused, rubbing his hands together and returning to his desk. 'They tell me there is nothing quite so refreshing as a cup of tea!'

He flipped the switch on the intercom.

'Miss Pittman, would you bring in some tea, please?'

The door opened instantaneously to reveal his secretary holding a tray of tea things. She was in her late twenties, and pretty in an English rose sort of way; she wore a floral summer dress under a fawn cardigan.

Miss Pittman followed the smoothly worn floorboards and carpet from the door to the side table. She curtsied and laid the tea things next to an identical tray left from an earlier occasion. She threw the old tea tray out of the window and I heard the soft tinkle of broken crockery; I had seen a large pile of broken tea things outside the window when I arrived. The secretary paused, hands pressed tightly together.

'Shall … shall I pour you a cup?' she asked, a flush rising to her cheeks.

'Thank you!' exclaimed Mr Phillips, walking excitedly to the window and back again. 'Milk and—'

'—one sugar.' His secretary smiled shyly. 'Yes, yes … I know.'

'But of course you do!' He smiled back.

Then the next stage of this odd charade took place. The auctioneer and secretary moved to the place where their two worn paths were closest, the very outer limits that their existence allowed them. Miss Pittman held the cup by its rim, placed her toes right on the edge where carpet began and shiny floorboard ended, stretching out as far as she could. Mr Phillips did the same on his side of the divide. The tips of his fingers could just touch the rim of the cup but try as he might he could not reach far enough to grasp it.

'Allow me,' I said, unable to watch the cruel spectacle any longer. I passed the cup from one to the other.

How many cups of tea had gone cold in the past thirty-five years? I wondered. How uncrossable the six foot of carpet that divided them! Whoever Event Managed this book down in the Well was possessed of a cruel sense of humour.

Miss Pittman curtsied politely and departed while the auctioneer watched her go. He sat down at his desk, eyeing the teacup thirstily. He licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips in expectation, then took a sip and savoured the moment lovingly.

'Oh my goodness!' he said deliriously. 'Even better than I thought it would be!'

He took another sip and closed his eyes with the sheer delight of it.

'Where were we?' he asked.

I took a deep breath.

'I want you to buy Johnny's father's pigs with an offer that purports to come from an unknown buyer — and as close to the top of page two hundred and thirty-two as you can.'

'Utterly impossible!' said the auctioneer. 'You are asking me to change the narrative! I will have to see higher authority.'

I passed him my Jurisfiction ID card. It wasn't like me to pull rank, but I was getting desperate.

'I'm on official business sanctioned by the Council of Genres itself through Text Grand Central.' It was how I thought Miss Havisham might do it.

'You forget that we are out of print pending modernisation,' he replied shortly, tossing my ID back across the table. 'You have no mandatory powers here, Apprentice Next. I think Jurisfiction will look very carefully before attempting a change on a book without internal approval. You can tell the Bellman that, from me.'

We stared at each other, a diplomatic impasse having arrived. I had an idea and asked him:

'How long have you been an auctioneer in this book?'

'Thirty-six years.'

'And how many cups of tea have you had in that time?' I asked him.

'Including this one?'

I nodded.

'One.'

I leaned forward.

'I can fix it for you to have as many cups of tea as you want, Mr Phillips.'

He narrowed his eyes.

'Oh yes?' he replied. 'And how would you manage that? As soon as you've got what you want you'll be off and I'll never be able to reach Miss Pittman's proffered cup again!'

I stood up and went to the table on which the tea tray was sitting. It was a small table made of oak and lightly decorated. It had a vase of flowers on it, but nothing else. As Mr Phillips watched I picked up the table and placed it next to the window. The auctioneer looked at me dumbfounded, got up, walked to the window and delicately touched the table and the tea things.

An audacious move,' he said, waving the sugar tongs at me, 'but it won't work. She's a D-7 — she won't be able to change what she does.'

'D-7s never have names, Mr Phillips.'

'I gave her that name,' he said quietly. 'You're wasting your time.'

'Let's see, shall we?' I replied, speaking into the intercom to ask Miss Pittman to bring in more tea.

The door opened as before and a look of shock and surprise crossed the girl's face.

'The table!' she gasped. 'It's—!'

'You can do it, Miss Pittman,' I told her. 'Just place the tea where you always do.'

She moved forward, following the well-worn path, arrived at where the table used to be and then looked at its new position, two strides away. The smooth and unworn carpet was alien and frightening to her; it might as well have been a bottomless chasm. She stopped dead.

'I don't understand—!' she began, her face bewildered as her hands began to shake.

'Tell her to put the tea things down,' I told the auctioneer, who was becoming as distressed as Miss Pittman — perhaps more so. 'TELL HER!'

'Thank you, Miss Pittman,' murmured Mr Phillips, his voice croaking with emotion, 'put the tea things down over here, would you?'

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, raised her foot and held it, quivering, above the edge of the shiny floorboards. Then she moved it forward and rested it on the soft carpet. She opened her eyes, looked down and beamed at us both.

'Well done!' I said. 'Just two more.'

Brimming with confidence, she negotiated the two remaining steps with ease and placed the tray on the table. She and Mr Phillips were closer now than they had ever been before. She put out a hand to touch his lapel, but checked herself quickly.

'Shall … shall I pour you a cup?' she asked.

'Thank you!' exclaimed Mr Phillips. 'Milk and—'

'—one sugar.' She smiled shyly. 'Yes, yes, I know.'

She poured the tea and handed the cup and saucer to him. He took it gratefully.

'Mr Phillips?'

'Yes?'

'Do I have a first name?'

'Of course,' he replied quietly and with great emotion. 'I have had over thirty years to think about it. Your name is Aurora, as befits somebody as beautiful as the dawn.'

She covered her nose and mouth to hide her smile and blushed deeply. Mr Phillips raised a shaking hand to touch her cheek but stopped as he remembered that I was still present. He nodded imperceptibly in my direction and said:

'Thank you, Miss Pittman — perhaps later you might come in for some … dictation.'

'I look forward to it, Mr Phillips!'

And she turned, trod softly on the carpet to the door, looked round once more and went out. When I looked back at Mr Phillips he had sat down, drained by the emotionally charged encounter.

'Do we have a deal?' I asked him. 'Or do I put the table back where it was?'

He looked shocked.

'You wouldn't?'

'I would.'

He considered his position for a moment and then offered me his hand.

'Pigs at treble the going rate?'

'Top of page two thirty-two.'

'Deal.'

Pleased with my actions so far, I collected the dog and jumped forward to the middle of page 232. By now the sale of Johnny's father's pigs was the talk of the town, and had even made it into the headlines of the local papers: Unprecedented pig price shocks town. There was only one thing left to do — replace the blind collie with the sighted one.

'I'm looking for the vet,' I said to a passer-by.

'Are you?' replied the woman amiably. 'Good for you!' and she hurried on.

'Could you tell me the way to the vet?' I asked the next person, a sallow man in a tweed suit. He was no less literal.

'Yes I could,' he replied, attempting to walk on. I tried to grasp him by the sleeve but missed and momentarily clasped his hand. He gasped out loud. This was echoed by two women who had witnessed the incident. They started to gossip volubly. I pulled out my ID.

'Jurisfiction,' I told him, adding: 'On official business,' just to make sure he got the picture.

But something had happened. The inhabitants of the village, who up until that moment had seemed to wander the streets like automatons, were all of a sudden animated individuals, talking, whispering and pointing. I was a stranger in a strange land, and while the inhabitants didn't seem hostile, I was clearly an object of considerable interest.

'I need to get to the vet,' I said loudly. 'Now can anyone tell me where he lives?'

Two ladies who had been chattering suddenly smiled and nodded to one another.

'We'll show you where he works.'

I left the first man still staring at his hand and looking at me in an odd way.

I followed the ladies to a small building set back from the road. I thanked them both. One of them, I noticed, remained at the gate while the other bustled away with a purposeful stride. I rang the doorbell.

'Hello?' said the vet, opening the door and looking surprised; he only had one client booked in that day — Johnny and Shadow. The vet was meant to tell the young lad how Shadow would stay blind for ever.

'This dog,' said the vet automatically, 'will never see again. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.'

'Jurisfiction,' I told him, showing him my ID. 'There's been a change of plan.'

'If you're exchanging golliwogs for monkeys, you're in the wrong book,' he said.

'This isn't Noddy,' I told him.

'What sort of change, then?' he asked as I gently forced my way in and closed the door. 'Are you here to alter the less-than-savoury references to stereotypical gypsy folk in chapters XIII to XV?'

'We'll get round to that, don't you worry.'

I wasn't going to take any chances and go through the same rigmarole as I had with Mr Phillips, so I looked around furtively and said in a conspiratorial whisper:

'I shouldn't be telling you this, but … wicked men are planning to steal Shadow and sell him off for medical experiments!'

'No!' exclaimed the vet, eyes open wide.

'Indeed,' I replied, adding in a hushed tone: 'And what's more, we suspect that these men might not even be British.'

'You mean …Johnny Foreigners?' asked the vet, visibly shocked.

'Probably French. Now, are you with me on this?'

'Absolutely!' he breathed. 'What are we going to do?'

'Swap dogs. When Johnny arrives you tell him to go outside for a moment, we swap the dogs, when he comes back you unwrap the bandages, the dog can see — and you say this dialogue instead.'

I handed him a scrap of paper. He looked at it thoughtfully.

'So Shadow stays here and the swapped Shadow is abducted by Johnny Foreigner and used for medical experiments?'

'Something like that. But not a word to anyone, you understand?'

'Word of honour!' replied the vet.

So I gave him the collie and, sure enough, when Johnny brought in the blinded Shadow, the vet told him to go and get some water, we swapped dogs and, when Johnny returned, lo and behold, the dog could see again. The vet feigned complete surprise and Johnny, of course, was delighted. They left soon after.

I stepped from the office where I had been hiding. How did I do?' asked the vet, washing his hands.

'Perfect. There could be a medal in it for you.'

It all seemed to have gone swimmingly well. I couldn't believe my luck. But more than that, I had the feeling that Havisham might actually be quite proud of her apprentice — at the very least this should make up for having to rescue me from the grammasites. Pleased, I opened the door to the street and was surprised to find that a lot of the locals had gathered, and they all seemed to be staring at me. My feeling of euphoria over the completed mission suddenly evaporated as unease welled up inside me.

'It's time! It's time!' announced one of the ladies I had seen earlier.

'Time for what?'

'Time for a wedding!'

'Whose?' I asked, not unreasonably.

'Why yours, of course!' she answered happily. 'You touched Mr Townsperson's hand. You are betrothed. It is the law!'

The crowd surged towards me and I reached, not for my gun, but for my TravelBook in order to get out quickly. It was the wrong choice. Within a few moments I had been overpowered. They took my book and gun, then held me tightly and propelled me towards a nearby house where I was forced into a wedding dress that had seen a lot of previous use and was several sizes too big.

'You won't get away with this!' I told them as they hurriedly brushed and plaited my hair with two men holding my head. 'Jurisfiction know where I am and will come after me, I swear!'

'You'll get used to married life,' exclaimed one of the women, her mouth full of pins. 'They all complain to begin with — but by the end of the afternoon they are as meek as lambs. Isn't that so, Mr Rustic?'

'Aye, Mrs Passer-by,' said one of the men holding my arms, 'like lambs, meek.'

'You mean there were others?'

'There is nothing like a good wedding,' said one of the other men, 'nothing except—'

Here Mr Rustic nudged him and he was quiet.

'Nothing except what!' I asked, struggling again.

'Oh, hush!' said Mrs Passer-by. 'You made me drop a stitch! Do you really want to look a mess on your wedding day?'

'Yes.'

Ten minutes later, bruised and with my hands tied behind my back and a garland of flowers in my badly pinned hair, I was being escorted towards the small village church. I managed to grab the lichgate on the way in but was soon pulled clear. A few moments later I was standing at the altar next to Mr Townsperson, who was neatly dressed in a morning suit. He smiled at me happily and I scowled back.

'We are gathered here today in the eyes of God to bring together this woman and this man …'

I struggled but it was no good.

'This proceeding has no basis in law!' I shouted, attempting to drown out the vicar. He signalled to the verger, who placed a bit of sticking plaster over my mouth. I struggled again but with four burly farmworkers holding me, it was useless. I watched with a sort of strange fascination as the wedding proceeded, the villagers snivelling with happiness in the small church. When it came to the vows, my head was vigorously nodded for me, and a ring pressed on my finger.

'… I now pronounce you man and wife! You may kiss the bride.'

Mr Townsperson loomed closer. I tried to back away but was held tightly. Mr Townsperson kissed me tenderly on the sticking plaster that covered my mouth. As he did so an excited murmur went up from the congregation.

There was applause and I was dragged towards the main door, covered in confetti and made to pose for a wedding photograph. For the picture the sticking plaster was removed so I had time to make my protestations.

'No coerced wedding was ever recognised by law!' I bellowed. 'Let me go right now and I may not report you!'

'Don't worry, Mrs Townsperson,' said Mrs Passer-by, addressing me, 'in ten minutes it really won't matter. You see, we rarely get the opportunity to perform nuptials as no one in here ever gets married — the Well never went so far as to offer us that sort of luxury.'

'What about the others you mentioned?' I asked, a sense of doom rising within me. 'Where are the other brides who were forced into marriage?'

Everyone looked solemn, clasped their hands together and stared at the ground.

'What's going on?' I asked. 'What will happen in ten minutes—?'

I turned as the four men let go of me, and saw the vicar again. But he wasn't cheery this time. He was very solemn, and well he might be. Before him was a freshly dug grave. Mine.

'Oh my God!' I muttered.

'Dearly beloved, we are gathered …' began the vicar as the same townsfolk began to sniffle into their hankies again. But this time the tears weren't of happiness — they were of sorrow.

I cursed myself for being so careless. Mr Townsperson had my automatic and released the safety catch. I looked around desperately. Even if I had been able to get a message to Havisham I doubted whether she could have made it in time.

'Mr Townsperson,' I said in a quiet voice, staring into his eyes, 'my own husband! You would kill your bride?'

He trembled slightly and glanced at Mrs Passer-by.

'I'm … I'm afraid so, my dear,' he faltered.

'Why?' I asked, stalling for time.'

'We need the … need the—'

'For Panjandrum's sake get on with it!' snapped Mrs Passer-by, who seemed to be the chief instigator of all this, 'I need my emotional fix!'

'Wait!' I said. 'You're after emotion?

'They call us Sentiment Junkies,' said Mr Townsperson nervously. 'It's not our fault. We are Generics rated between C-7 and D-3; we don't have many emotions of our own but are smart enough to know what we're missing.'

'If you don't kill her, I shall!' mumbled Mr Rustic, tapping my 'husband' on the elbow. He pulled away.

'She has a right to know,' he remarked. 'She is my wife, after all.'

He looked nervously left and right.

'Go on.'

'We started with humorous one-liners that offered a small kick. That kept us going for a few months but soon we wanted more: laughter, joy, happiness in any form we could get it. Thrice-monthly garden fetes, weekly harvest festivals and tombola four times a day were not enough; we wanted … the hard stuff.'

'Grief,' murmured Mrs Passer-by, 'grief, sadness, sorrow, loss — we wanted it but we wanted it strong. Ever read On Her Majesty's Secret Service?

I nodded.

'We wanted that. Our hearts raised by the happiness of a wedding and then dashed by the sudden death of the bride!'

I stared at the slightly crazed Generics. Unable to generate emotions synthetically from within the confines of their happy rural idyll, they had embarked upon a systematic rampage of enforced weddings and funerals to give them the high they desired. I looked at the graves in the churchyard and wondered how many others had suffered this fate.

'We will all be devastated by your death, of course,' whispered Mrs Passer-by, 'but we will get over it — the slower the better!'

'Wait!' I said. 'I have an idea!'

'We don't want ideas, my love,' said Mr Townsperson, pointing the gun at me again, 'we want emotion.'

'How long will this fix last?' I asked him. 'A day? How sad can you be for someone you barely know?'

They all looked at one another. I was right. The fix they were getting by killing and burying me would last until teatime if they were lucky.

'You have a better idea?'

'I can give you more emotion than you know how to handle,' I told them. 'Feelings so strong you won't know what to do with yourselves.'

'She's lying!' cried Mrs Passer-by dispassionately. 'Kill her now — I can't wait any longer! I need the sadness! Give it to me!'

'I'm Jurisfiction,' I told them. 'I can bring more jeopardy and strife into this book than a thousand Blytons could give you in a lifetime!'

'You could?' echoed the townspeople excitedly, lapping up the expectation I was generating.

'Yes — and here's how I can prove it. Mrs Passer-by?'

'Yes?'

'Mr Townsperson told me earlier he thought you had a fat arse.'

'He said what?' she replied angrily, her face suffused with joy as she fed off the hurt feelings I had generated.

'I most certainly said no such thing!' blustered Mr Townsperson, obviously feeling a big hit himself from the indignation.

'Us too!' yelled the townsfolk excitedly, eager to see what else I had in my bag of goodies.

'Nothing before you untie me!'

They did so with great haste; sorrow and happiness had kept them going for a long time but they had grown bored — I was here in the guise of dealer, offering new and different experiences.

I asked for my gun and was handed it, the townspeople watching me expectantly like a dodo waiting for marshmallows.

'For a start,' I said, rubbing my wrists and throwing the wedding ring aside, 'I can't remember who got me pregnant!'

There was a sudden silence.

'Shocking!' said the vicar. 'Outrageous, morally repugnant — mmmm!'

'But better than that,' I added, 'if you had killed me you would also have killed my unborn son — guilt like that could have lasted for months!'

'Yes!' yelled Mr Rustic. 'Kill her now!'

I pointed the gun at them and they stopped in their tracks

'You'll always regret not having killed me,' I murmured.

The townsfolk went quiet and mused upon this, the feeling of loss coursing through their veins.

'It feels wonderful!' said one of the farmworkers, taking a seat on the grass to focus his mind more carefully on the strange emotional pot-pourri offered by a missed opportunity of double murder. But I wasn't done yet.

'I'm going to report you to the Council of Genres,' I told them, 'and tell them how you tried to kill me — you could be shut down and reduced to text!'

I had them now. They all had their eyes closed and were rocking backwards and forwards, moaning quietly.

'Or perhaps,' I added, beginning to back away, 'I won't.'

I pulled off the wedding dress at the lichgate and looked back, townspeople were laid out on the ground, eyes closed, surfing their inner feelings on a cocktail of mixed emotions. They wouldn't be down for days.

I picked up myjacket and TravelBook on the way to the vet's, where the blind Shadow was waiting for me. I had completed the mission, even if I had come a hair's breadth from a sticky end. I could do better, and would, given time. I heard a low, growly voice close at hand.

'What happens to me? Am I reduced to text?'

It was Shadow.

'Officially, yes.'

'I see,' replied the dog, 'and unofficially?'

I thought for a moment.

'Do you like rabbits?'

'Rather.'

I pulled out my TravelBook.

'Good. Give me your paw. We're off to Rabbit Grand Central.'