5.
Ham (let) and Cheese
“Seven Wonders of Swindon” Naming
Bureaucracy Unveiled
After five years of careful consideration, Swindon
City Council has unveiled the naming procedure for the city’s much
vaunted “Seven Wonders” tourism plan. The twenty-seven-point
procedure is the most costly and complicated piece of bureaucracy
the city has ever devised and might even be included as one of the
wonders itself. The plan will be be undertaken by the Swindon
Special Committee for Wonders, which will consider applications
prepared by the Seven Wonders Working Party from six separate
name-selection subcommittees. Once chosen, the wonders will be
further scrutinized by eight different oversight committees before
being adopted. The byzantine and needlessly expensive system is
already tipped to win the coveted Red Tape Award from
Bureaucracy Today.
Article in Swindon Globe News, June 12,
1988
I drove to the car park above the Brunel
Centre and bought a pay-and-display ticket, noting how they had
almost tripled in price since I was here last. I looked in my
purse. I had fifteen pounds, three shillings and an old Skyrail
ticket.
“Short of cash?” asked Hamlet as we walked down the
stairs to the street-level concourse.
“Let’s just say I’m very ‘receipt rich’ at
present.”
Money had never been a problem in the BookWorld.
All the details of life were taken care of by something called
Narrative Assumption. A reader would assume you had gone
shopping, or gone to the toilet, or brushed your hair, so a writer
never needed to outline it—which was just as well, really. I’d
forgotten all about the real-world trivialities, but I was actually
quite enjoying them, in a mind-dulling sort of way.
“It says here,” said Hamlet, who had been reading
the newspaper, “that Denmark invaded England and put hundreds of
innocent English citizens to death without trial!”
“It was the Vikings in 786, Hamlet. I hardly
think that warrants the headline BLOODTHIRSTY DANES GO ON RAMPAGE.
Besides, at the time they were no more Danish than we were
English.”
“So we’re not the historical enemies of
England?”
“Not at all.”
“And eating rollmop herrings won’t lead to erectile
dysfunction?”
“No. And keep your voice down. All these people are
real, not D-7 generic crowd types. Out here, you only exist in a
play.”
“Okay,” he said, stopping at an electronics shop
and staring at the TVs. “Who’s she?”
“Lola Vavoom. An actress.”
“Really? Has she ever played Ophelia?”
“Many times.”
“Was she better than Helena Bonham Carter?”
“Both good—just different.”
“Different? What do you mean?”
“They both brought different things to the
role.”
Hamlet laughed. “I think you’re confusing the
matter, Thursday. Ophelia is just Ophelia.”
“Not out here. Listen, I’m just going to see how
bad my overdraft is.”
“How you Outlanders complicate matters!” he
murmured. “If we were in a book right now, you’d be accosted by a
solicitor who tells you a wealthy aunt has died and left you lots
of money—and then we’d just start the next chapter with you in
London making your way to Kaine’s office disguised as a cleaning
woman.”
“Excuse me!” said a suited gentleman who looked
suspiciously like a solicitor. “But are you Thursday Next?”
I glanced nervously at Hamlet.
“Perhaps.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr.
Wentworth of Wentworth, Wentworth and Wentworth, Solicitors. I’m
the second Wentworth, if you’re interested.”
“And?”
“And . . . I wonder if I could have your autograph?
I followed your Jane Eyre escapade with a great deal of
interest.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and signed his
autograph book. Mr. Wentworth thanked me and hurried off.
“You had me worried for a moment there,” said
Hamlet. “I thought I was meant to be the fictitious one.”
“You are.” I smiled. “And don’t you forget
it.”
“Twenty-two thousand pounds?” I said to the
cashier. “Are you sure?”
The cashier looked at me with unblinking eyes, then
at Hamlet, who was standing over me a bit indelicately.
“Quite sure. Twenty-two thousand, three hundred
eight pounds and four shillings three pence
ha’penny—overdrawn,” she added, in case I had missed it.
“Your landlord sued you for dodo-related tenancy violations and won
five thousand pounds. Since you weren’t here, we upped your credit
limit when he demanded payment. Then we raised the limit again to
pay for the additional interest.”
“How very thoughtful of you.”
“Thank you. Goliath First National Friendly always
aims to please.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go with
the ‘wealthy aunt’ scenario?” asked Hamlet, being no help at
all.
“No. Shhh.”
“We haven’t had a single deposit from you for
nearly two and a half years,” continued the bank clerk.
“I’ve been away.”
“Prison?”
“No. So the rest of my overdraft is . . . ?”
“Interest on the money we lent you, interest on the
interest we lent you, letters asking for money that we know you
haven’t got, letters asking for an address that we knew wouldn’t
reach you, letters asking whether you got the letters we knew you
hadn’t received, further letters asking for a response because we
have an odd sense of humor—you know how it all adds up! Can we
expect a check in the near future?”
“Not really. Um . . . any chance of raising my
credit limit?”
The cashier arched an eyebrow. “I can get you an
appointment to see the manager. Do you have an address to which we
can send expensive letters demanding money?”
I gave them Mum’s address and made an appointment
to see the manager. We walked past the statue of Brunel and the
Booktastic shop, which I noted was still open, despite several
closing-down sales—one of which I had witnessed with Miss
Havisham.
Miss Havisham. How I had missed her guidance in my
first few months heading Jurisfiction. With her I might have
avoided that whole stupid sock episode in Lake Wobegon
Days.
“Okay, I give up,” said Hamlet quite suddenly. “How
does it all turn out?”
“How does what all turn out?”
He spread his arms out wide.
“All this. You, your husband, Miss Hamilton, the
small dodo, that SuperHoop thing and the big company—what’s it
called again?”
“Goliath?”
“Right. How does it all turn out?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Out here our lives
are pretty much an unknown quantity.”
Hamlet seemed shocked by the concept. “How do you
live here not knowing what the future might bring?”
“That’s part of the fun. The pleasure of
anticipation.”
“There is no pleasure in anticipation,” said Hamlet
glumly. “Except perhaps,” he added, “in killing that old fool
Polonius.”
“My point exactly,” I replied. “Where you come
from, events are preordained and everything that happens to you has
some sort of relevance further on in the story.”
“It’s clear you haven’t read Hamlet for
a—LOOK OUT!”
Hamlet pushed me out of the way as a small
steamroller—the size that works on sidewalks and paths—bore rapidly
down upon us and crashed past into the window of the shop we had
been standing outside. The roller stopped amongst a large display
of electrical goods, the rear wheels still rotating.
“Are you okay?” asked Hamlet, helping me to my
feet.
“I’m fine—thanks to you.”
“Goodness!” said a workman, running up to us and
turning a valve to shut off the roller. “Are you all right?”
“Not hurt in the least. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” replied the workman, scratching his
head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Really, I’m fine.”
We walked off as a crowd began to gather. The owner
of the shop didn’t look that upset; doubtless he was thinking about
what he could charge to insurance.
“You see?” I said to Hamlet as we walked
away.
“What?”
“This is exactly what I mean. A lot happens
in the real world for no good reason. If this were fiction, this
little incident would have relevance thirty or so chapters from
now; as it is it means nothing—after all, not every incident in
life has a meaning.”
“Tell that to the scholars who study me,”
Hamlet snorted disdainfully, then thought for a moment before
adding, “If the real world were a book, it would never find
a publisher. Overlong, detailed to the point of distraction—and
ultimately, without a major resolution.”
“Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “that’s exactly
what we like about it.”
We reached the SpecOps Building. It was of a
sensible Germanic design built during the occupation, and it was
here that I, along with Bowden Cable and Victor Analogy, dealt with
Acheron Hades’ plot to kidnap Jane Eyre out of Jane Eyre.
Hades had failed and died in the attempt. I wondered how many of
the old gang would still be around. I had sudden doubts and decided
to think for a moment before going in. Perhaps I should have a plan
of action instead of charging in Zhark-like.
“Fancy a coffee, Hamlet?”
“Please.”
We walked into the Café Goliathe opposite. The same
one, in fact, that I had last seen Landen walking towards an hour
before he was eradicated.
“Hey!” said the man behind the counter who seemed
somehow familiar. “We don’t serve those kind in here!”
“What kind?”
“The Danish kind.”
Goliath was obviously working with Kaine on this
particular nonsense.
“He’s not Danish. He’s my cousin Eddie from
Wolverhampton.”
“Really? Then why is he dressed like Hamlet?”
I thought quickly. “Because . . . he’s insane.
Isn’t that right, Cousin Eddie?”
“Yes,” said Hamlet, to whom feigning madness was
not much of a problem. “When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk
from a handsaw.”
“See?”
“Well, that’s all right, then.”
I started as I realized why he seemed familiar. It
was Mr. Cheese, one of the Goliath corporate bullies that Brik
Schitt-Hawse had employed. He and his partner, Mr. Chalk, had made
my life difficult before I left. He didn’t have his goatee anymore,
but it was definitely him. Undercover? I doubted it—his name was on
his Café Goliathe badge with, I noted, two gold stars, one for
washing up and the other for latte frothing. But he didn’t show any
sign of recognizing me.
“What will you have, Ham—I mean, Cousin
Eddie?”
“What is there?”
“Espresso, mocha, latte, white mocha, hot
chocolate, decaf, recaf, nocaf, somecaf, extracaf, Goliachino™ . .
. what’s the matter?”
Hamlet had started to tremble, a look of pain and
hopelessness on his face as he stared wild-eyed at the huge choice
laid out in front of him.
“To espresso or to latte, that is the question,” he
muttered, his free will evaporating rapidly. I had asked Hamlet for
something he couldn’t easily supply: a decision. “Whether ’tis
tastier on the palate to choose white mocha over plain,” he
continued in a rapid garble, “or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to
stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless
choice, end one’s heartache—”
“Cousin Eddie!” I said sharply. “Cut it out!”
“To froth, to sprinkle, perchance to drink, and in
that—”
“He’ll have a mocha with extra cream,
please.”
Hamlet stopped abruptly once the burden of decision
was taken from him.
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his temples, “I don’t
know what came over me. All of a sudden I had this overwhelming
desire to talk for a very long time without actually doing
anything. Is that normal?”
“Not for me. I’ll have a latte, Mr. Cheese,”
I said, watching his reaction carefully.
He still didn’t seem to recognize me. He rang up
the cost and then started making the coffees.
“Do you remember me?”
He narrowed his eyes and stared at me carefully for
a moment or two. “No.”
“Thursday Next?”
His face broke into a broad grin, and he put out a
large hand for me to shake, welcoming me as an old workmate rather
than a past nemesis. I faltered, then shook his hand slowly.
“Miss Next! Where have you been? Prison?”
“Away.”
“Ah! But you’re well?”
“I’m okay,” I said suspiciously, retrieving my
hand. “How are you?”
“Not bad!” he laughed, looking at me sideways for a
moment and narrowing his eyes. “You’ve changed. What is it?”
“Almost no hair?”
“That’s it. We were looking for you everywhere. You
spent almost eighteen months in the Goliath top ten most
wanted—although you never made it to the number-one slot.”
“I’m devastated.”
“No one has ever spent ten months on the list,”
carried on Cheese with a sort of dreamy, nostalgic look. “The next
longest was three weeks. We looked everywhere for
you!”
“But you gave up?”
“Goodness me, no,” replied Cheese. “Perseverance is
what Goliath does best. There was a restructuring of corporate
policy, and we were reallocated.”
“You mean fired.”
“No one is ever fired from Goliath,” said Cheese in
a shocked tone. “Cots to coffins. You’ve heard the adverts.”
“So just moved on from bullying and terrifying and
into lattes and mochas?”
“Haven’t you heard?” said Cheese, frothing up some
milk. “Goliath has moved its corporate image away from the
‘overbearing bully’ and more towards ‘peace, love and
understanding.’ ”
“I heard something about it last night,” I replied,
“but you’ll forgive me if I’m not convinced.”
“Forgive is what Goliath does best, Miss Next.
Faith is a difficult commodity to imbue—and that’s why violent and
ruthless bullies like me have to be reallocated. Our corporate
seer, Sister Bettina, foresaw a necessity for us to change to a
faith-based corporate-management system, but the rules concerning
new religions are quite strict—we have to make changes to the
corporation that are meaningful and genuine. That’s why the old
Goliath Internal Security Service is now known as Goliath Is
Seriously Sorry—you see, we even kept the old initials so we didn’t
have to divert money away from good causes to buy new headed
notepaper.”
“Or have to change them back when this charade has
been played out.”
“You know,” said Cheese, waving a finger at me,
“you always were just that teensy-weensy bit cynical. You should
learn to be more trusting.”
“Trusting. Right. And you think the public will
believe this touchy-feely, good-Lord-we’re-sorry-forgive-us-please
crap after four decades of rampant exploitation?”
“Rampant exploitation?” echoed Cheese in a dismayed
tone. “I don’t think so. ‘Proactive greater goodification’ was more
what we had in mind—and it’s five decades, not four. Are you sure
your cousin Eddie isn’t Danish?”
“Definitely not.”
I thought about Brik Schitt-Hawse, the odious
Goliath agent who’d had my husband eradicated in the first place.
“What about Schitt-Hawse? Where does he work these days?”
“I think he moved into some post in Goliathopolis.
I really don’t move in those circles anymore. Mind you, we should
all get together for a reunion and have a drink! What do you
think?”
“I think I’d rather have my husband back,” I
replied darkly.
“Oh!” said Cheese, suddenly remembering just what
particular unpleasantness he and Goliath had done to me. Then he
added slowly, “You must hate us!”
“Just a lot.”
“We can’t have that. Repent is what Goliath does
best. Have you applied for a Goliath Unfair Treatment
Reversal?”
I stared at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” he began, “Goliath has been allowing
disgruntled citizens to apply to have reversed any unfair or unduly
harsh measures taken against them—sort of a big apology, really. If
Goliath is to become the opiate of the masses, we must first atone
for our sins. We like to right any wrongs and then have a good
strong hug to show we really mean it.”
“Hence your demotion to coffee-shop
attendant.”
“Exactly so!”
“How do I apply?”
“We’ve opened an Apologarium in Goliathopolis; you
can take the free shuttle from Tarbuck Graviport. They’ll tell you
what to do.”
“Harmonious peace, eh?”
“Peace is what Goliath does best, Miss Next. Just
fill out a form and see one of our trained apologists. I’m sure
they can get your husband back in a jiffy!”
I took the mocha with extra cream and the latte and
sat by the window, staring at the SpecOps Building in silence.
Hamlet sensed my disquiet and busied himself on a list of things he
wanted to tell Ophelia but didn’t think he would be able to, then
another list of things he should tell her but won’t. Then a list of
all the different lists he had written about Ophelia and, finally,
a letter of appreciation to Sir John Gielgud.
“I’m going to sort out a few things,” I said after
a while. “Don’t move from here, and don’t tell anyone who you
really are. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Hamlet, Prince of . . . just kidding. I’m your
cousin Eddie.”
“Good. And you have cream on your nose.”