I patted my pocket and she handed me a scrap of paper and a bunch of keys.
'Good. This is my footnoterphone number in case of emergencies, these are the keys to the flying boat and my BMW. If a loser named Arnold calls, tell him I hope he rots in hell. Any questions?'
'I don't think so.'
She smiled.
'Then we're done. You'll like it here. I'll see you in about a year. So long!'
She gave a cheery wave and walked off up the dusty track. I watched until she was out of sight then sat upon a rickety wooden seat next to a long-dead tub of flowers. I let Pickwick out of her bag. She ruffled her feathers indignantly and blinked in the sunlight. I looked across the lake at the sailing dinghies, which were little more than brightly coloured triangles that tacked backwards and forwards in the distance. Nearer to shore a pair of swans beat their wings furiously and pedalled the water in an attempt to take off, landing almost as soon as they were airborne, and throwing up a long streak of spray on the calm waters. It seemed a lot of effort to go a few hundred yards.
I turned my attention to the flying boat. The layers of paint that covered and protected the riveted hull had partly peeled off, to reveal the colourful livery of long-forgotten airlines. The perspex windows had clouded with age, and high in the massive wing untidy cables hung lazily from the oil-stained cowlings of the three empty engine bays, their safe inaccessibility now a haven for nesting birds. Goliath, Aornis and SpecOps seemed a million miles away – but then, so did Landen. Landen. Memories of my husband were never far away. I thought of all the times we had spent together that hadn't actually happened. All the places we hadn't visited, all the things we hadn't done. He may have been eradicated at the age of two, but I still had our memories – just no one to share them with.
I was interrupted in my thoughts by the sound of a motorcycle approaching. The rider didn't have much control of the vehicle; I was glad that he stopped short of the jetty – his erratic riding may well have led him straight into the lake.
'Hello!' he said cheerfully, removing his helmet to reveal a youngish man with a dark Mediterranean complexion and deep sunken eyes. 'My name's Arnold. I haven't seen you around here before, have I?'
I got up and shook his hand.
'The name's Next. Thursday Next. Character Exchange Programme.'
'Oh, blast!' he muttered. 'Blast and double blast! I suppose that means I've missed her?'
I nodded and he stared up the road, shaking his head sadly.
'Did she leave a message for me?'
'Y-es,' I said uncertainly, 'she said she would – um – see yo
u when she gets back.'
'She did?' replied Arnold, brightening up. 'That's a good sign. Normally she calls me a loser and tells me to go rot in hell.'
'She probably won't be back for a while,' I added, trying to make up for not passing on Mary's message properly, 'maybe a year – maybe more.'
'I see,' he murmured, sighing deeply and staring off across the lake. He caught sight of Pickwick, who was attempting to out-stare a strange aquatic bird with a rounded bill.
'What's that?' he asked suddenly.
'I think it's a duck although I can't be sure – we don't have any where I come from.'
'No, the other thing.'
'A dodo.'1
'What's the matter?' asked Arnold.
I was getting a footnoterphone signal; in the BookWorld people generally communicated like this.
'A footnoterphone call,' I replied, 'but it's not a message – it's like the wireless back home.'2
Arnold stared at me.
'You're not from around here, are you?'
'I'm from what you call the Outland.'3
He opened his eyes wide.