The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

“The Crimea took a lot away from all of us,” said Joffy quietly. “Perhaps that is why we have to work twice as hard to hang onto what we have left. Even I was not immune to the passion of the battle. When I first went to the peninsula I was excited by the war—I could feel the insidious hand of nationalism holding me upright and smothering my reason. When I was out there I wanted us to win, to kill the foe. I reveled in the glory of battle and the camaraderie that only conflict can create. No bond is stronger than that welded in conflict; no greater friend is there than the one who stood next to you as you fought.”

Joffy suddenly seemed that much more human; I presumed this was the side of him his parishioners saw.

“It was only afterward that I realized the error of what we were doing. Pretty soon I could see no difference between Russian and English, French or Turk. I spoke out and was banned from the frontline in case I sowed disharmony.

My bishop told me that it was not my place to judge the errors of the conflict, but to look after the spiritual well-being of the men and women.”

“So that’s why you returned to England?”

“That’s why I returned to England.”

“You’re wrong, you know,” I told him.

“About what?”

“About not having a serious bone in your body. Did you know Colonel Phelps was in town?”

“I did. What an arse. Someone should poison him. I’m speaking opposite him as ‘the voice of moderation.’ Will you join me at the podium?”

“I don’t know, Joff, really I don’t.”

I stared at my tea and refused a chocolate biscuit that he offered me.

“Mum keeps the memorial well, doesn’t she?” I said, desperate to change the subject.

“Oh, it’s not her, Doofus. She couldn’t bear to even walk past the stone—even if she did slim down enough to get through the lich-gate.”

“Who, then?”

“Why, Landen, of course. Did he not tell you?”

I sat up.

“No. No, he didn’t.”

“He might write crap books and be a bit of a dork, but he was a good friend to Anton.”

“But his testimony damned him forever!—”

Joffy put his tea down and leaned forward, lowered his voice to a whisper and placed his hand on mine.

“Sister dearest, I know this is an old cliché but it’s true: The first casualty of war is always truth. Landen was trying to redress that. Don’t think that he didn’t agonize long and hard over it— it would have been easier to lie and clear Ant’s name. But a small lie always breeds a bigger one. The military can ill afford more than it has already. Landen knew that and so too, I think, did our Anton.”

I looked up at him thoughtfully. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Landen but I hoped I would think of something. He had asked me to marry him ten years ago, just before his evidence at the tribunal. I had accused him of attempting to gain my hand by stealth, knowing what my reaction would be following the hearing. I had left for London within the week.

“I think I’d better call him.”

Joffy smiled.

“Yes, perhaps you’d better—Doofus.”

20.

Dr. Runcible Spoon

. . . Several people have asked me where I find the large quantity of prepositions that I need to keep my Bookworms fit and well. The answer is, of course, that I use omitted prepositions, of which, when mixed with dropped definite articles, make a nourishing food. There are a superabundance of these in the English language. Journey’s end, for instance, has one omitted preposition and two definite articles: theendof thejourney. There are many other examples, too, such as bedside (thesideof thebed) and streetcorner (thecornerof thestreet), and so forth. If I run short I head to my local newspapers, where omitted prepositions can be found in The Toad’s headlines every day. As for the worm’s waste products, these are chiefly composed of apostrophes—something that is becoming a problem—I saw a notice yesterday that read: Cauliflower’s, three shilling’s each . . .

MYCROFT NEXT,