‘They sideslipped my husband, Gran.’

‘When did they take him?’ she asked, looking at me over her glasses in the way that grannies do; she never questioned what I said and I explained everything to her as quickly as I could—except for the bit about the baby. I’d promised Landen I wouldn’t.

‘Hmm,’ said Granny Next when I had finished. ‘They took my husband too—I know how you feel.’

‘Why did they do it?’

‘The same reason they did it to you. Love is a wonderful thing, my dear, but it leaves you wide open to blackmail. Give way to tyranny and others will suffer just as badly as you—perhaps worse.’

‘Are you saying I shouldn’t try to get Landen back?’

‘Not at all; just think carefully before you help them. They don’t care about you or Landen; all they want is Jack Schitt. Is Anton still dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What a shame. I hoped to see your brother before I popped myself. Do you know what the worst bit about dying is?’

‘Tell me, Gran.’

‘You never get to see how it all turns out.’

‘Did you get your husband back, Gran?’

Instead of answering she unexpectedly placed her hand on my midriff and smiled that small and all-knowing smile that grandmothers seem to learn at granny school, along with crochet, January sales battle tactics and wondering what you are doing upstairs.

‘June?’ she asked.

You never argue with Granny Next, nor seek to know how she knows such things.

‘July. But Gran, I don’t know if it’s Landen’s, or Miles Hawke’s, or whose!’

‘You should call this Hawke fellow and ask him.’

‘I can’t do that!’

‘Worry yourself woolly, then,’ she retorted. ‘Mind you, my money is on Landen as the father—as you say, the memories avoided the sideslip, so why not the baby? Believe me, everything will turn out fine. Perhaps not in the way that you imagine, but fine nonetheless.’

I wished I could share her optimism. She took her hand off my stomach and lay back on the bed, the energy expended during the Ping-Pong having taken its toll.

‘I need to find a way to get back into books without the Prose Portal, Gran.’

She opened her eyes and looked at me with a keenness that belied her old age.

‘Humph!’ she said, then added: ‘I was SpecOps for seventy-seven years in eighteen different departments. I jumped backwards and forwards and even sideways on occasion. I’ve chased bad guys who make Hades look like St Zvlkx and saved the world from annihilation eight times. I’ve seen such weird shit you can’t even begin to comprehend, but for all of that I have absolutely no idea how Mycroft managed to jump you into Jane Eyre.’

‘Ah.’

‘Sorry, Thursday—but that’s the way it is. If I were you I’d work the problem out backwards. Who was the last person you met who could book-jump?’

‘Mrs Nakajima.’

‘And how did she manage it?’

‘She just read herself in, I suppose.’

‘Have you tried it?’

I shook my head.

‘Perhaps you should,’ she replied with deathly seriousness. ‘The first time you went into Jane Eyre—wasn’t that a book jump?’

‘I guess.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, as she picked a book at random off the shelf above her bed and tossed it across to me, ‘perhaps you had better try.’

I picked the book up.

‘The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies?’

‘Well, you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’ replied Gran with a chuckle. I helped her take off her blue gingham shoes and made her more comfortable.

‘One hundred and eight!’ she muttered ‘I feel like the bunny in that Fusioncell ad—you know, the one that has to run on “Brand X”?’

‘You’re Fusioncell all the way to me, Gran.’

She gave a faint smile and leaned back on the pillows.

‘Read the book to me, my dear.’

I sat down and opened the small Beatrix Potter volume. I glanced up at Gran, who had closed her eyes.

‘Read!’

So I did, right from the front to the back.

‘Anything?’

‘No,’ I replied sadly, ‘nothing.’

‘Not even the whiff of garden refuse or the distant buzz of a lawnmower?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Hah!’ said Gran. ‘Read it to me again.’

So I read it again, and again after that.

‘Still nothing?’

‘No, Gran,’ I replied, beginning to get bored.

‘How do you see the character of Mrs Tittlemouse?’

‘Resourceful and intelligent,’ I mused. ‘Probably a gossip and likes to name-drop. Leagues ahead of Benjamin in the brain department.’

‘How do you figure that’’ queried Gran.

‘Well, by allowing his children to sleep so vulnerably in the open air Benjamin clearly shows minimal parenting skills, yet he has enough preservation to cover his own face. It was Flopsy who had to come and look for him as this sort of thing has obviously happened before—it is clear that Benjamin can’t be trusted with the children. Once again the mother has to show restraint and wisdom.’

‘Maybe so,’ replied Gran, ‘but there wasn’t a great deal of wisdom in creeping into the garden and watching from the window while Mr and Mrs McGregor discovered they had been duped with the rotten vegetables, now, was there?’

She had a point.

‘A narrative necessity,’ I replied. ‘I think there is more high drama if you follow the outcome of the rabbit’s subterfuge, don’t you? I think Flopsy, had she been making all the decisions, would have just returned to the burrow but was, on this occasion, overruled by Beatrix Potter.’

‘It’s an interesting theory,’ commented Gran, stretching her toes out on the counterpane and wiggling them to keep the circulation going. ‘Mr McGregor’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t he? Quite the Darth Vader of children’s literature.’

‘Misunderstood,’ I told her ‘I see Mrs McGregor as the villain of the piece. A sort of Lady Macbeth. His laboured counting and inane chuckling might indicate a certain degree of dementia that allows him to be easily dominated by Mrs McGregor’s more aggressive personality. I think their marriage is in trouble, too. She describes him as a “silly old man” and “a doddering old fool” and claims the rotten vegetables in the sack are just a pointless prank to annoy her.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not really. I think that’s about it Good stuff, isn’t it?’

But Gran didn’t answer; she just chuckled softly to herself.

‘So you’re still here, then,’ she commented. ‘You didn’t jump into Mr and Mrs McGregor’s cottage?’

‘No.’

‘In that case,’ began Gran with a mischievous air, ‘how did you know she called him a “doddering old fool”?’

‘It’s in the text.’

‘Better check, young Thursday.’

I flicked to the correct page and found, indeed, that Mrs McGregor had said no such thing.

‘How odd!’ I said. ‘I must have made it up.’

‘Maybe,’ replied Gran, ‘or perhaps you overheard it. Close your eyes and describe the kitchen in Mr McGregor’s cottage.’

‘Lilac-washed walls,’ I mused, ‘a large range with a kettle singing merrily above a coal fire. There is a dresser against one wall with floral-patterned crocks upon it and atop the scrubbed kitchen table there is a jug with flowers—’

I lapsed into silence.

‘And how would you have known that?’ asked Gran triumphantly. ‘Unless you had actually been there?’

I quickly reread the book several times, concentrating hard, but nothing similar happened. Perhaps I wanted it too much, I don’t know. After the tenth reading I was just looking at the words and nothing else.

‘It’s a start,’ said Gran encouragingly. ‘Try another book when you get home, but don’t expect too much too soon—and I’d strongly recommend you go and look for Mrs Nakaima. Where does she live?’

‘She took retirement in Jane Eyre.’

‘Before that?’

‘Osaka.’

‘Then perhaps you should seek her there—and for heaven’s sake relax!’

I told her I would, kissed her on the forehead and quietly left the room.