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She looked around.
'How about a pamphlet?'
'No.'
'Anything with text printed on it? Paper and pen?'
'No.'
'Then we might,' exclaimed Havisham, 'have a problem.'
The door opened and Schitt-Hawse entered; he was grinning fit to burst.
'Well, well,' he said. 'Lock up a book-jumper and another soon joins her!'
He took one look at Havisham's old wedding dress and put two and two together.
'Goodness! Is that … Miss Havisham?'
As if in answer, Havisham whipped out her small pistol and fired it in his direction. Schitt-Hawse gave a yelp and leaped back out through the door, which clanged shut.
'Are you sure there is nothing to read in here?' asked Havisham in a more urgent manner. 'There must be something!'
'I've told you – they've removed everything!'
Miss Havisham raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down.
'Take off your trousers, girl – and don't say "what?" in that impudent manner. Do as you're told.'
So I did, and Havisham turned the garment over in her fingers as she searched for something.
'There!' she cried triumphantly as the door opened and a hissing gas canister was lobbed in. I followed her gaze but she had found only – the washing label. I must have looked incredulous for she said
in an offended manner: 'It's enough for me!' and then repeated out loud: 'Wash inside out, wash and dry separately, wash inside out, wash and dry separately …'
We surfed in on the pungent smell of washing detergent and overheated iron. The landscape was dazzling white and was without depth; my feet were firmly planted on the ground yet I could see nothing but white surrounding my shoes when I looked down, the same as the view above me and to either side. Miss Havisham, whose dirty dress seemed even more shabby than usual in the white surroundings, was looking around the lone inhabitants of this strange and empty world: five bold icons the size of garden sheds that stood neatly in a row like standing stones. There was a crude tub with a number sixty on it, an iron shape, a tumble-dryer shape, and a couple of others that I wasn't too sure about. I touched the first icon, which felt warm to the touch and very comforting; they all seemed to be made of compressed cotton.
'Iconographic representations of washing instructions,' muttered Havisham as I put my trousers back on. 'This could be tricky. How many other washing labels do you think there are?'
'I'm not sure,' I replied. 'Several billions, certainly.'
'I thought as much. We need to narrow our jump parameters, girl. I'm no expert when it comes to washing – what's the least abundant form of garment that might have washing instructions?'
'Dressing gown?' I hazarded. 'Ra-ra skirt? But does it have to be a label?'
Havisham raised an eyebrow so I carried on.
'Washing machine instructions always carry these icons, explaining what they mean.'
'Hmm,' said Miss Havisham thoughtfully. 'Do you have a washing machine?'
Fortunately, I did – and more fortunately still, it was one of the things that had survived the sideslip. I nodded excitedly.
'Good. Now, more importantly, do you know the make and model?'
'Hoover Electron 1000 … No! 800 Deluxe – I think.'
'Think? You think? You'd better be sure, girl, or you and I will be nothing more than carved names on the Boojumorial! Now. Are you sure?'
