Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'I'm now on twenty K plus car and a good pension package. I could take voluntary retirement at fifty-five and still draw two-thirds of my wage. What is the SpecOps retirement fund like?'

'Crap, Wilbur – but you know that.'

A slightly smaller and more follicularly challenged version of Wilbur walked up

'Hello, Thursday.'

'Hello, Orville. How's the ear?'

'Just the same. What was that you were saying about retiring at fifty-five, Will?'

In all the excitement of pension plans I was forgotten. Charlotte, who was Orville's wife, also had the 'Thursday Next' look, she and Gloria fell eagerly into untaxing conversation about whether leather shoes in 'the look' should be worn above or below the ankle, and whether a small amount of eyeliner was acceptable. As usual, Charlotte tended to agree with Gloria, in fact, she tended to agree with everybody about everything. She was as hospitable as the day was long, but it was important not to get caught in an elevator with her – she could agree you to death.

We left them to their conversation and I walked in through the living room door, deftly catching the wrist of my elder brother Joffy, who had been hoping to give me a resounding slap on the back of my head as was his thirty-five-year-old custom. I had seen him lurking and was prepared. I twisted his arm into a half nelson and had his face pressed against the door before he knew what had happened.

'Hello, Joff,' I said. 'Slowing up in your old age?'

I let him go. He laughed energetically, straightened his jaw and dog-collar and hugged me tightly while proffering a hand for Landen to shake. Landen, after checking for the almost mandatory hand buzzer, shook it heartily.

'How's Mr and Mrs Doofus, then?'

'We're fine, Joff. You?'

'Not that good, Thurs. The Church of the Global Standard Deity has undergone a split.'

'No!' I said with as much surprise and concern in my voice as I could muster.

'I'm afraid so. The new Global Standard Clockwise Deity have broken away due to unresolvable differences over the direction in which the collection plate is passed round.'

'Another split? That's the third this week!'

'Fourth,' replied Joffy dourly, 'and it's only Tuesday. The standardised pro-Baptist conjoined Methodanan–Luthenan sisters of something-or-other split into two subgroups yesterday. Soon,' he added grimly, 'there won't be enough ministers to man the splits. As it is I have to attend two dozen different breakaway church groups every week. I often forget which one I'm at, and as you can imagine, preaching to the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx the Consumer the sermon that I should have been reading to the Church of the Misrepresented Promise of Eternal Life can be highly embarrassing. Mum's in the kitchen. Do you think Dad will turn up?'

I didn't know and told him so. He looked crestfallen for a moment and then said:

'Will you come and do a professional mingle at my Les arts modernes de Swindon show next week?'

'Why me?'

'Because you're vaguely famous and you're my sister. Yes?'

'Okay.'

He tugged my ear affectionately and we walked into the kitchen.

'Hello, Mum!'

My mother was bustling around some chicken vol-au-vents. By some bizarre twist of fate they had turned out not at all burned and actually quite tasty – it had thrown her into a bit of a panic. Most of her cooking ended up as the culinary equivalent of the Tunguska event.

'Hello, Thursday, hello, Landen. Can you pass me that bowl, please?'

Landen passed it over, trying to guess the contents.

'Hello, Mrs Next,' he said.

'Call me Wednesday, Landen – you're family now, you know.' She smiled and giggled to herself.

'Dad said to say hello,' I put in quickly before Mum cooed herself into a frenzy. 'I saw him today.'