43.
Recovery
Toast Party Unveils Manifesto
Mr. Redmond van de Poste, whose ruling Toast
(formerly Commonsense) Party took control of the nation last week,
announced the party’s manifesto to raise the country from economic
and social collapse. Mr. van de Poste began by announcing mandatory
toast-eating requirements for all citizens on a sliding scale based
on age, then proposed a drive to place a new toaster in every home
within a year. “In the long term,” continued Mr. van de Poste, “we
will instigate a five-year plan to upgrade all our manufacturing
facilities to build a new brand of supertoaster that will sweep
aside all competition and make England the toast capital of the
world.” Critics of the Toast manifesto indicated alarm at Poste’s
strident calls for a North Atlantic Toast Alliance, and pointed out
that by excluding non-toast-eating nations it would create
unnecessary international tension. Mr. van de Poste has not yet
responded, and has called for a reform of parliament.
Article in The Toad, August 4, 1988
I went home two weeks later to a house that
was so full of flowers it looked like Kew Gardens. I still didn’t
have complete command of the right-hand side of my body but every
day it seemed a little bit more like part of me, a little less
numb. I sat and looked out the open French windows into the garden.
The air was heavy with the scents of summer and the breeze gently
played upon the net curtains. Friday was drawing with some crayons
on the floor and I could hear the clacketty-clack of
Landen’s old Underwood typewriter next door, and in the kitchen
Louis Armstrong was on the wireless singing “La Vie en Rose.” It
was the first time I had been able to relax for almost as long as I
could remember. I was going to need an extended convalescence but
would go back to work eventually—perhaps at SpecOps, perhaps at
Jurisfiction, perhaps both.
“I came to say good-bye.”
It was Hamlet. I had learned from him earlier that
William Shgakespeafe had managed to extricate Hamlet from
The Merry Wives of Windsor, and both plays were as they
should be. The one enigmatic, the other a spin-off.
“Are you sure you’re—”
He silenced me with a wave of his hand and sat down
on the sofa while Alan gazed at him adoringly.
“I’ve learned a lot of things while I’ve been
here,” he said. “I’ve learned that there are many Hamlets, and we
love each one of them for their different interpretation. I liked
Gibson’s because it has the least amount of dithering, Orson
because he did it with the best voice, Gielgud for the ease in
which he placed himself within the role and Jacobi for his passion.
By the way, have you heard of this Branagh fellow?”
“No.”
“He’s just starting to get going. I’ve got a
feeling his Hamlet will be stupendous.”
He thought for a moment.
“For centuries I’ve been worrying about audiences
seeing me as a mouthy spoiled brat who can’t make up his mind about
anything, but, having seen the real world, I can understand the
appeal. My play is popular because my failings are your
failings, my indecision the indecision of you all. We all know what
has to be done; it’s just that sometimes we don’t know how to get
there. Acting without thought doesn’t really help in the long run.
I might dither for a while, but at least I make the right decision
in the end: I bear my troubles and take arms against them.
And thereby lies a message for all mankind, although I’m not
exactly sure what it is. Perhaps there’s no message. I don’t
really know. Besides, if I don’t dither, there’s no play.”
“So you’re not going to kill your uncle in the
first act?”
“No. In fact, I’m going to leave the play exactly
as it is. I’ve decided instead to focus my energies towards being
the Jurisfiction agent for all of Shakespeare’s works. I’ll have a
go at Marlowe, too—but I’m not keen on Webster.”
“That’s excellent news,” I told him. “Jurisfiction
will be very happy.”
He paused. “I’m still a bit annoyed that someone
told Ophelia about Emma. It wasn’t you, was it?”
“On my honor.”
He got up, bowed and kissed my hand. “Come and
visit me, won’t you?”
“You can count on it,” I replied. “Just one
question: where on earth did you find Daphne Farquitt? She’s the
recluse’s recluse.”
He grinned. “I didn’t. By the morning of the
SuperHoop, I had managed to gather about nine people. There’s a
limit to how much anti-Kaine sentiment you can muster going door to
door in Swindon at two in the morning.”
“So there never was a Farquitt Fan Club?”
“Oh, I’m sure there is somewhere, but Kaine didn’t
know it, now, did he?”
I laughed. “I’ve a feeling you’re going to be an
asset to Jurisfiction, Hamlet. And I want you to take something
with you as a gift from me.”
“A gift? I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those
before.”
“No? Well, always a first for everything. I want
you to have . . . Alan.”
“The dodo?”
“I think he’d be an invaluable addition to Elsinore
Castle—just don’t let him get into the main story.”
Hamlet looked at Alan, who looked back at him
longingly.
“Thank you,” he said with as much sincerity as he
could. “I’m deeply honored.”
Alan went a bit floppy as Hamlet picked him up, and
a few moments later they both vanished back to Elsinore, Hamlet to
further continue his work as a career procrastinator, and Alan to
cause trouble in the Danish court.
“Hello, Sweetpea.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“You did a terrific job over that SuperHoop. How
are you feeling?”
“Pretty good.”
“Did I tell you that as soon as Zvlkx got hit by
that Number 23 bus, the Ultimate Likelihood Index of that
Armageddon rose to eighty-three percent?”
“No, you never told me that.”
“Just as well really—I wouldn’t have wanted you to
panic.”
“Dad, who was St. Zvlkx?”
He leaned closer. “Don’t tell a soul, but he was
someone named Steve Schultz of the Toast Marketing Board. I think I
might have recruited him, or he might have approached me to
help—I’m not sure. History has rewritten itself so many times I’m
really not sure how it was to begin with—it’s a bit like trying to
guess the original color of a wall when it’s been repainted eight
times. All I can say is that everything turned out okay—and that
things are far weirder than we can know. But the main thing
is that Goliath now answers to the Toast Marketing Board and Kaine
is out of power. The whole thing has been rubber-stamped into
historical fact, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“How did you manage to jump Schultz or Zvlkx or
whoever he was all the way from the thirteenth century without the
ChronoGuard spotting what you were up to?”
“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 traveler. An expert who can surf the time line with a
skill I will never possess.”
“Me?”
He chuckled. “No, silly—Friday.”
The little boy looked up when he heard his name and
chewed a 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.”