The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise Part 6

Valerie Jennings looked at her notebook but found herself unable to concentrate on reuniting the yellow canoe with its owner. She glanced at the cuckoo clock, dreading lunchtime. Despite the fact that Arthur Catnip was their favourite ticket inspector, she bitterly regretted having agreed to go out with him. She had never intended to enter the maze of romance again, with its hopeless dead ends. The last time she ventured inside, she had been encouraged by a neighbour unable to bear the sight of her mowing her lawn, a job she believed was decreed at birth to be that of a husband. She waited until Valerie Jennings was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the edge next to the fence, and seized the opportunity to rear her head. First she congratulated her on her crosscutting technique, which her own husband also swore by. She then added in a breathless non sequitur that she had a single colleague who also liked books. But despite Valerie Jennings's insistence that single men were almost as dangerous as married ones, the woman persisted until she reluctantly agreed to meet him.

For a week she convinced herself that the man would be entirely unsuitable. But as she got ready for their evening together, a spark of hope suddenly flickered inside her, and when she closed the front door behind her a gust of loneliness fanned it into an inferno of longing. She sat in the corner of the pub with her double vodka and orange, inspecting the pattern on her new dress, looking up each time someone came in. Eventually, a man opened the door and glanced around. They held each other's gaze long enough for her to realise that it was him. She offered a timorous smile, but he turned on his heels and left with as much determination as he had shown on entering. It was a considerable time before Valerie Jennings was able to stand. She then pulled down her dress over her splendid thighs and walked out, leaving the embers of her dreams scattered behind her.

When the door of the cuckoo clock burst open and the tiny wooden bird shot out to deliver a single demented cry, Hebe Jones wished her good luck. "I've got some lipstick you can borrow, if you like," she added.

"It's okay, thanks. I wouldn't want to encourage him," she replied. She put on her navy coat over the skirt she had worn the previous day, and reluctantly turned the corner. Arthur Catnip was already waiting at the original Victorian counter, fingering a savage new haircut. The a.s.sault had taken place that morning during his tea break. As soon as the barber heard that his customer was taking a woman out for lunch, he insisted that something more dramatic was required. But instead of the transformation he had been hoping for, when Arthur Catnip raised his eyes to the mirror after the man had finally laid down his scissors, he found that a ma.s.sacre had taken place. Not even the peace dove of a waived bill could appease him. He wandered back to the staff room in defeat, hoping that Valerie Jennings would see past the carnage.

They headed out together into the cold, discussing the early morning snow that had failed to settle. As they pa.s.sed the Hotel Splendid, Valerie Jennings glanced with regret at the marvellous columns and the uniformed doorman waiting on the top step, wondering where the ticket inspector was taking her.

It wasn't long before the couple arrived at the entrance to Regent's Park, and Valerie Jennings wished she was back in the warm, familiar office. As they pa.s.sed the fountain, Arthur Catnip pointed to something in the distance and announced that they were almost there. Valerie Jennings peered through her smeared spectacles and saw what was undeniably a tea hut. "I think it's going to rain," she said.

As they pa.s.sed several men prodding the undergrowth with sticks, Arthur Catnip wondered what they were searching for. But Valerie Jennings didn't even look up, as she was thinking about what she would find in the comforting foxed pages of Miss E. Clutterbuck that evening, while in the sanctuary of her armchair with the pop-up leg rest.

When they approached the tea hut, she pointed with relief to a notice on the door saying "Closed." But Arthur Catnip pushed it open, and invited her to step inside. Instead of the rows of battered tables and chairs filled with dog walkers and bird-watchers, she looked around to see a table set for two in the center, covered in a white linen cloth. A single yellow rose stood in a silver vase in the middle. Behind the counter was a man wearing a white chef's hat, and a young waitress dressed in black. "Don't worry, I asked for a French chef," said Arthur Catnip as the waitress approached to take her coat.

When the onion soup arrived, Valerie Jennings recalled the French onion seller of her childhood standing on the corner with his laden bicycle. Lowering his voice, Arthur Catnip revealed that his uncle had run away with one, after which the vegetable was banished from the house.

Once the poulet a la moutarde was served, the ticket inspector topped up her gla.s.s and recounted the spectacle of the mysterious voodoo chickens he had seen while in Haiti with the Navy. Valerie Jennings took another sip of wine and found herself telling him about the c.o.c.kerel owned by her G.o.dmother that had fallen in love with the kitchen mop and tried to mount it each time the woman cleaned the kitchen floor.

As they were eating the tarte tatin, she muttered that she had been thinking about making cider from the apples in her garden in the summer, as they had never been good enough for baking. The tattooed ticket inspector said he thought it was a great idea, and confessed to having once drunk so much of the stuff, he fell overboard and spent almost a week on a desert island before being spotted by his ship and rescued.

While they were drinking their coffee, one of the men they had seen earlier prodding the undergrowth with a stick put his head around the door and asked: "You haven't seen a bearded pig by any chance, have you?"

They replied that they hadn't, and offered to keep a lookout on their way back, both thrilled at the thought of seeing a pig with a beard. But as they returned to the Lost Property Office, Valerie Jennings forgot all about it as she only had eyes for Arthur Catnip.

THAT NIGHT, THE TICKING OF THE CLOCK on the bedside table seemed much louder in the darkness. As she looked at the time, Hebe Jones wondered whether she would ever fall asleep. She moved onto her side, away from her husband's fitful slumber, and her mind turned to the evening they had just spent. Balthazar Jones had gone up to the room at the top of the Salt Tower as usual, without a word about what day it was, and she had remained on the sofa, pierced with shards of grief, wondering how he could have forgotten. on the bedside table seemed much louder in the darkness. As she looked at the time, Hebe Jones wondered whether she would ever fall asleep. She moved onto her side, away from her husband's fitful slumber, and her mind turned to the evening they had just spent. Balthazar Jones had gone up to the room at the top of the Salt Tower as usual, without a word about what day it was, and she had remained on the sofa, pierced with shards of grief, wondering how he could have forgotten.

She remembered Milo's last birthday, when he had again requested a chemistry set. He had asked for one ever since his father first told him about Sir Walter Raleigh brewing his Balsam of Guiana in the Tower henhouse. Much to her annoyance, he had filled the boy's head with wondrous tales of the Great Cordial, made with ingredients that included gold and unicorn, which had cured Queen Anne of a dangerous fever.

"Daddy said the Queen was so impressed with it that she asked for some to save the life of her son Prince Henry," the boy had said as his birthday approached. "He said that they'd tried to cure him by putting dead pigeons on his head and pressing two halves of a c.o.c.k against the soles of his feet. But once he'd swallowed the Cordial, he opened his eyes and sat up and spoke!"

Hebe Jones had continued peeling the potatoes. "What your father failed to tell you was that he died not long afterwards," she replied.

But despite Milo's pleading, Hebe Jones refused to buy her son a chemistry set, fearing disaster despite her husband's insistence that he would supervise each experiment. When the boy tore the wrapping off his present, he discovered a telescope that offered not the slightest possibility of eruption. His parents took him up to the Salt Tower roof, where Balthazar Jones showed him all the stars that the first Astronomer Royal who had lived in the Tower would have seen. "If the ravens ever get in the way of your telescope, let me know and I'll fetch Grandpa's shotgun," the Beefeater promised. While Milo appeared delighted by the prospect of his father reducing the odious birds to a pile of black feathers, Hebe Jones knew that planet-gazing was no match for the experiments he had hoped to perform. Recognising her son's disappointment, she a.s.sured him she would buy him the present he had always wanted for his twelfth birthday. But it had never come. As she turned over to escape the memory of the promise she hadn't been able to keep, a hot tear slipped down her cheek.

When she woke several hours later, the room was still dark. Immediately sensing the absence of her husband, she ran a hand along the bottom of the sheet, and found that his side was still warm. Pulling back the shabby blanket, she got out of bed and drew back a curtain. She gazed at the Tower, streaked with faint brushstrokes of light. Through the rain, which slid in greasy drops down the pane, she made out her husband slowly climbing the battlement steps, his wet nightclothes clinging to him. When he eventually returned, a new variety hidden in his dressing-gown pocket, he found that Hebe Jones and her suitcase were gone.

CHAPTER TEN.

UNABLE TO REPORT for duty because of the weight in his chest, Balthazar Jones sat on the edge of the bed in a dry pair of pajamas and picked up the telephone. As he called the office in the Byward Tower, his eyes followed each revolution of the dial and its laborious spin backwards. for duty because of the weight in his chest, Balthazar Jones sat on the edge of the bed in a dry pair of pajamas and picked up the telephone. As he called the office in the Byward Tower, his eyes followed each revolution of the dial and its laborious spin backwards.

"Yes?" replied the Yeoman Gaoler.

The Beefeater rubbed the shabby blanket between his fingers. "It's Yeoman Warder Jones here," he said.

"Good morning, Yeoman Warder Jones. The shrew's fine. It ate a cricket while I was in the shower this morning."

"That's good."

"Is it a he or a she, by the way?"

"I'm not sure. I'll find out." Balthazar Jones cleared his throat, then added: "I won't be reporting for duty today."

"And why is that, may I ask?" the Yeoman Gaoler enquired, standing up and surveying the room for his packet of Fig Rolls.

"I'm not feeling very well."

"Oh?" came the m.u.f.fled reply as the Yeoman Gaoler peered inside a bin, looking for an empty wrapper.

There was a pause.

"I've had a surfeit of lampreys," continued Balthazar Jones, his mind drifting in the current of his despair.

"A what?"

The Beefeater tried to recall what he had just said, and suddenly realised that he had told the Yeoman Gaoler he was suffering from over-consumption of an eel-like fish that had caused the death of Henry I. But there was no going back.

"A surfeit of lampreys," Balthazar Jones repeated as quietly as possible.

"Speak up, man!"

"Lampreys," he muttered. "A surfeit of them."

There was a pause.

"Just a minute," replied the Yeoman Gaoler, putting down the phone. He strode over to the bookcase next to the arrow slit and pulled out a binder in which absences were recorded. Returning to his desk, he sat down, picked up the receiver, and selected a pen from an old Golden Syrup tin.

"And how are we spelling lampreys?" he enquired, finding his page. He twiddled his pen as he waited for a reply.

"I'm not sure," replied Balthazar Jones, gazing at his wet dressing gown on the back of the door.

"Laammppreeez," enunciated the Yeoman Gaoler as he noted down the affliction and filled in the date. He paused before adding: "They must have been good."

After putting down the phone, Balthazar Jones reached for the letter he had found on his pillow when he returned to bed earlier that morning, soaked with rain and reeking of the Thames. Despite the numerous times he had read it, he still failed to find in it any hope that his wife would ever return. There was no mistaking her need to be away from him, her bitterness over his refusal to talk about Milo's death, and her despair over the erosion of their love.

As he stared at her name on the bottom of the page, he thought of the gust of serendipity that had blown him and Hebe Grammatikos together all those years ago. It was such a chance encounter, too random to be the rea.s.suring hand of destiny, that he had lived in terror of luck's capricious nature ever since.

For too long he had been afraid that he was never going to marry. An only child, he had been woken at night by the sound of laughter coming from his parents' bedroom above. He had a.s.sumed that all relationships were of equal delight, but the girls he met were disappointing. His parents a.s.sured him that his bride would eventually come, but as the years pa.s.sed and their conviction failed to prove true, he decided to join the Army in order to distract himself from his loneliness, opting to become a guardsman in the belief that it would present fewer opportunities to shoot someone. The day before he was due to leave, his hair shorn and packed bag waiting outside his bedroom door, he met the extraordinary creature in the corner shop.

About to buy some stamps for the letters he planned to write to his parents, he spotted the girl standing in an aisle holding a Battenberg cake, dark hair meandering down the front of her turquoise dress. She had the eyes of a fawn, which fixed on him as soon as he approached, and from that moment all sanity was lost. He walked up to her and informed her that the lurid yellow-and-pink-checked cake had been invented by a distant relative of his in honour of the woman who had captured the man's heart. Unable to send her flowers because of her catastrophic allergies, he had made her a cake of the most alluring colours he could find in his garden. The four coloured squares each represented an aspect of her that had so beguiled him: the paleness of her skin, her modesty, her wit, and her piano playing. Each week, a carriage arrived at her home with a basket on the back seat bearing a cake. But the woman, whose doctor had forbidden her to eat sugar, never tasted them. Instead, she packed up some of her china and kept the love tokens in her dining-room cupboards. When the man learnt of the secret stash, he started covering the cakes in marzipan to ensure their preservation. He continued baking them, and she continued keeping them, a habit they maintained up until their wedding, and the creation was named after the German town they visited during their honeymoon.

When Balthazar Jones finished his story there was a moment of pure silence. The Pakistani shopkeeper, as transfixed as Hebe Grammatikos, then declared from behind the till: "It is true, madam," simply because he wanted it to be.

The young couple sat on the wall outside the shop talking for so long that Balthazar Jones invited her for supper, to the initial devastation of his mother, who wanted her son to herself on his last night. But it wasn't long before she was equally taken with Hebe Grammatikos, and she gave an extra serving of hogget to the tiny guest with the enormous appet.i.te. When the girl's last train home had long departed, Mrs. Jones made up the spare bed down the hall and retired upstairs with her husband. When all was quiet, Balthazar Jones eventually persuaded the extraordinary creature into his room, with the a.s.surance of the most gentlemanly of behaviour. She sat on the end of his bed and asked why he was called Balthazar. He told her that he had been named after one of the Three Wise Men as he had been conceived on Christmas Day. In turn, she revealed that she had been named after the Greek G.o.ddess of youth. The pair talked until midnight, when they were suddenly reduced to silence by the realisation that they would be parted within hours. So they stayed awake, knowing that sleep would hasten the unthinkable moment. As the ruthless dawn heaved away the night, Hebe Grammatikos kissed the tip of each of his slender fingers, which would have to get used to holding a gun. And when it was finally time to say goodbye, she stood on the doorstep next to his parents and joined them in waving him off, each with a stone in their heart.

He used the stamps he had bought for letters to the tiny creature he had met in the corner shop. But his writing on the envelopes was always so confused by love that they took several weeks to arrive at the correct address. Kept awake by terrible snores coming from the bunk above him, he was in such distress over the time it took to receive a reply that he wrote more and more frequently, presuming that his letters were going astray. Two years later, when he proposed, it was to the great relief of the postman, whose back had long ago given way.

BALTHAZAR JONES IGNORED THE KNOCKING on the Salt Tower door. He remained in the same position on the bed, clutching the letter as the wind blew through the tiny gaps in the lattice windows. But the banging continued, and mounted with such urgency that the Beefeater, fearing the commotion would attract further attention, got up to answer it. He staggered down the stairs in his bare feet, heaved open the door, and shielded his eyes against the glare of the marble sky. Standing in front of him was Dr. Evangeline Moore carrying a black bag. "I understand you're not feeling well," she said. on the Salt Tower door. He remained in the same position on the bed, clutching the letter as the wind blew through the tiny gaps in the lattice windows. But the banging continued, and mounted with such urgency that the Beefeater, fearing the commotion would attract further attention, got up to answer it. He staggered down the stairs in his bare feet, heaved open the door, and shielded his eyes against the glare of the marble sky. Standing in front of him was Dr. Evangeline Moore carrying a black bag. "I understand you're not feeling well," she said.

Too troubled to think of a credible reason not to let her in, he stepped aside and followed her back up the stairs, feeling their chill on his soles, blackened from his nocturnal foray on the battlements. Once they had reached the living room, the Beefeater suddenly felt embarra.s.sed at being caught in his nightclothes by the young woman. Taking refuge on the sofa, he warned: "Mind where you're treading." The doctor, whose copper ringlets glowed whenever caught by a freak ray of sunshine, promptly sidestepped Mrs. Cook. She unb.u.t.toned the jacket of her neat brown trouser suit and sat down on the armchair that failed to match the settee.

Taking out a folder from her black bag, she opened it on her knees and ran a finger down a page. She frowned, looked up, and said: "According to the Yeoman Gaoler, you've had a surfeit of lampreys."

Balthazar Jones gazed at the floor and started digging at a threadbare patch of the emaciated carpet with a grimy toe. The only sound was a tiny creak as Mrs. Cook stood up and started her day's journey across the floor. The Tower doctor looked at the tortoise while the Beefeater continued to look at the floor. She turned her eyes back to her patient, who had bored such a big hole that half his toe had disappeared.

"It's not that uncommon," she suddenly declared. "You'd be surprised. How many are we talking about? Half a dozen maybe? Well, however many it was, I'm sure it's nothing serious. Just take it easy for the rest of the day," she concluded with a smile that he took to signify an end to the matter.

But just as Balthazar Jones thought that the doctor was about to leave, she suggested a quick examination. Too defeated to refuse, he stood up, and the doctor proceeded to poke and hammer at him with a variety of implements that wouldn't have looked out of place at the Wakefield Tower's instruments of torture exhibition. When it was finally over, he retreated to the sofa and immediately felt for the comfort of his beard as he watched the weapons being returned to the black bag.

"Everything seems to be fine. I'll let myself out," announced the general pract.i.tioner, stepping over Mrs. Cook and heading for the door. As she reached for the latch, she suddenly turned round and said: "I'm sorry to hear about your wife."

The silence that followed was eventually broken by the sound of heels descending the stone stairs. The Beefeater, not in the least surprised that word had already gotten out, remained slumped on the sofa. Unable to bear the thoughts that threatened to engulf him, he stood up and made his way to the bedroom. Preferring to report for duty rather than endure his own rumination, he slowly put on his uniform, wobbling as he clambered into his Victorian trousers.

HIDDEN FROM VIEW, the Ravenmaster knelt down next to the bridge over the moat and took out his nail scissors. Carefully he snipped at the gra.s.s that grew around the tiny crosses marking the graves of long-departed ravens, a number of which had literally dropped off their perches. Despite the stories peddled to the tourists, the legend that the kingdom would fall should the ravens leave the Tower was utter poppyc.o.c.k. The kingdom had not so much as trembled when the birds were put into cages just before the start of the Second World War and driven away at nightfall. Their unexpected holiday had been organised at the highest level to prevent them from receiving a direct hit, which would threaten the nation's morale. The same day, the Crown Jewels had also been secretly removed, transported in coffins by armed guards dressed as undertakers, and hidden in Westwood Quarry, in Wiltshire. The caged ravens were taken by ambulance to the terrace house of a Beefeater's aunt who lived in Wales and smuggled inside. The pebbledash home in Swansea remained in permanent blackout, and the aunt was forbidden from opening her door to visitors lest word get out that the ravens had left the Tower. Not only was the woman paid to look after the birds, but she was also granted a stipend for the rest of her life to keep silent about their temporary removal. the Ravenmaster knelt down next to the bridge over the moat and took out his nail scissors. Carefully he snipped at the gra.s.s that grew around the tiny crosses marking the graves of long-departed ravens, a number of which had literally dropped off their perches. Despite the stories peddled to the tourists, the legend that the kingdom would fall should the ravens leave the Tower was utter poppyc.o.c.k. The kingdom had not so much as trembled when the birds were put into cages just before the start of the Second World War and driven away at nightfall. Their unexpected holiday had been organised at the highest level to prevent them from receiving a direct hit, which would threaten the nation's morale. The same day, the Crown Jewels had also been secretly removed, transported in coffins by armed guards dressed as undertakers, and hidden in Westwood Quarry, in Wiltshire. The caged ravens were taken by ambulance to the terrace house of a Beefeater's aunt who lived in Wales and smuggled inside. The pebbledash home in Swansea remained in permanent blackout, and the aunt was forbidden from opening her door to visitors lest word get out that the ravens had left the Tower. Not only was the woman paid to look after the birds, but she was also granted a stipend for the rest of her life to keep silent about their temporary removal.

When the war was finally over, it was not certain who had driven the other more mad. The wild-eyed aunt, desperate for human conversation, told anyone who would listen (as well as those who wouldn't) about her top-secret mission during the war. But even the local paper refused to believe her. And the generation of wartime ravens, a species noted for its talent at mimicry, never lost their Welsh accents during the remainder of their days at the fortress.

Satisfied that dignity had been restored, the Ravenmaster put his scissors back in his pocket and stood up. He then made his way to the entrance of the Tower and stood on the bridge waiting to take the tourists on the last tour of the day. His black-gloved hands clasped in front of him, he watched the visitors who were on their way out, eyeing their rucksacks closely lest one try to leave with a bird buried deep within as the ultimate souvenir. As one of the giraffes in the moat raised its head in search of a leaf, the tourists immediately pointed to it. A man with a video camera attached to his hat approached the Ravenmaster and asked when the menagerie was opening.

"The day after tomorrow, if the Keeper of the Royal Menagerie gets his act together," came the mustached reply.

"I heard there used to be a menagerie here years ago," the Australian tourist continued.

"There was until the 1830s when they finally realised it was a bad idea to have wild animals around the place. Still is, as far as I'm concerned," said the Ravenmaster, turning his gaze back towards the giraffes.

"Was anyone killed?" asked the man, hopefully.

The Ravenmaster then told him the unfortunate tale of Mary Jenkinson, who lived with the lion keeper. "One day in 1686, she was inside the den stroking one of the animal's paws when it grabbed her arm in its teeth and wouldn't let go. Her arm was amputated in an attempt to save her life, but she died several hours later."

The tourist immediately related the tale to his wife, who beamed with equal satisfaction, and immediately asked her husband whether they could come back when the menagerie opened.

The Ravenmaster looked at his watch and called to the visitors waiting for the tour to step closer. He then threw open his arms and announced in his best theatrical tones, employed to elicit tips from the Americans: "Welcome to Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress, the Tower of London! It is my pleasure to be your guide over the next hour as we look back over nine hundred years of history ..."

An hour later, he stood at the door of the chapel as the tourists filed out, each pressing a coin into his hand. Once the last had left, he made his way to the ravens' pens and stood calling the birds' names one by one. They landed sham-bolically, then swaggered across the gra.s.s to their respective wooden homes and flew up inside. Locking the doors to keep them out of the jaws of urban foxes, he looked at his watch and smoothed down his pigeon grey mustache with a leather-gloved hand. High with antic.i.p.ation, he crossed the fortress to the Brick Tower and, with the furtiveness of a horse thief, glanced behind him. Satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he unlocked the door. Closing it behind him, he reached in the gloom for the rope handrail, then suddenly remembered that he was still wearing a vest. Recognising instantly that it was not the correct attire for an illicit encounter, he unb.u.t.toned his dark blue tunic, pulled off the undergarment, and left it in a warm bundle on the bottom step to collect on his way out. Once he was dressed again, he continued up the stone steps. Finding the door of the first floor closed, he felt for the handle and pressed down on the latch. The sudden sound startled the birds, which created such an uproar that the Ravenmaster, who had completely forgotten about the new aviary, joined them with a squawk of terror. The birds continued their demented circular flight long after Ambrosine Clarke arrived, dressed in jeans and a sweater, the neckline of which revealed the tormenting depth of her cleavage. The Ravenmaster reached for her in the darkness, recognising instantly the smell of cooking fat. Once their clothes were shed, they sank to the floorboards, where they were covered in a drizzle of seed husks whipped up by the frantic flapping. The cook's eventual shriek of ecstasy was drowned out by the profanities of the emerald hanging parrot, which had been rudely woken from its upside-down slumber.

Balthazar Jones had remained on the sofa in the same position since returning from an afternoon of patrolling the fortress. He hadn't bothered to close the curtains, and sat gazing at the night bulging up against the lattice windows that surrounded him. On the coffee table in front of him was the vest he had discovered on the bottom step of the Brick Tower when he checked on the birds on his way home. He could find nothing to account for the gentleman's underwear, and when he pushed open the door to the aviary, he saw that its inhabitants, terrorised into a state of exhaustion, were huddled together on their perches to keep warm as they slept, while the parrot hung below them, occasionally swaying while it dreamed. The only bird still awake was the wandering albatross, searching the cage for its companion, which was still at London Zoo as it didn't belong to the Queen.

It wasn't until the cold finally drove him to his feet that Balthazar Jones found the courage to go upstairs to the bedroom. He closed the curtains, the rings dragging sorrowfully across the poles, then undressed slowly to further delay the moment. Once in his pajamas, he spent longer than usual in the bathroom, having decided that now was the moment to fix the tap that had dripped since the family arrived eight years ago. When, eventually, he could find nothing else to occupy him, he came back out and finally looked at the empty bed. Unable to get into it, he pulled on a sweater, turned off the light, and sat in the armchair next to the window. When, several hours later, sleep continued to evade him, he stood up, drew back one of the curtains, and opened the window. Leaning against the sill, he looked out over the fortress, gruesome in the moonlight, and breathed in the dank night. And out of the deathly silence came the mournful wail of the solitary wandering albatross that mated for life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHEN HEBE JONES TRIED TO LEAVE the fortress in the early hours with her suitcase, the Beefeater on duty refused to unlock the small door inside the Middle Tower's vast oak gate. "It's against regulations," he replied when she protested. She sat on top of her case, coated in three years of dust, glancing at her watch with the impatience of a prisoner about to be set free. When six o'clock eventually came and the ancient lock was finally turned, she got up and walked stiffly out with the intention of going to work. But as she stood in the crowded Tube carriage, subjected to more intimacy with strangers than she experienced with her husband, she soon realised that a day of attempting to reunite abandoned property with its absentminded owners was beyond her. She climbed the steps to the exit and left a message on the office answering machine informing Valerie Jennings that she was unwell, and started walking the streets. After a while, she found herself by the entrance to Green Park and slipped in to escape the relentless commuters marching to work, knocking her case against her shins as they pa.s.sed. She spent much of the day on a bench, being pummelled by the wind as she wondered whether she was still a mother even though her son was dead. the fortress in the early hours with her suitcase, the Beefeater on duty refused to unlock the small door inside the Middle Tower's vast oak gate. "It's against regulations," he replied when she protested. She sat on top of her case, coated in three years of dust, glancing at her watch with the impatience of a prisoner about to be set free. When six o'clock eventually came and the ancient lock was finally turned, she got up and walked stiffly out with the intention of going to work. But as she stood in the crowded Tube carriage, subjected to more intimacy with strangers than she experienced with her husband, she soon realised that a day of attempting to reunite abandoned property with its absentminded owners was beyond her. She climbed the steps to the exit and left a message on the office answering machine informing Valerie Jennings that she was unwell, and started walking the streets. After a while, she found herself by the entrance to Green Park and slipped in to escape the relentless commuters marching to work, knocking her case against her shins as they pa.s.sed. She spent much of the day on a bench, being pummelled by the wind as she wondered whether she was still a mother even though her son was dead.

When darkness started to descend around her, fear forced her to her feet. She returned to the warmth of the Underground and rode the network wondering where women usually went when they left their husbands. Eventually, she made her way to Baker Street and arrived at the Hotel Splendid, the only hotel she knew, as she took Valerie Jennings there for lunch each year on her birthday. When the receptionist asked whether she required a single or double room, her eyes fell to the desk. "I'm alone," she replied, wondering whether the woman could tell that her marriage had just ended.

After being shown to her room by a Polish bellboy who insisted on carrying her case, she sat on the bed and her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten all day. She ordered a ham and mustard sandwich and ate it at the dressing table, still wearing her coat. Opening her case, she discovered that she had forgotten her nightdress, and she thought of it lying on the bed in the Salt Tower. Her mind turned once more to her husband, and she wondered whether there was anything in the fridge for his supper. Reluctant to sleep naked in such unfamiliar surroundings, she hung up her coat and skirt in the empty wardrobe and got into bed in her blouse and tights. She looked around at the cream swag curtains, the luxurious white bathrobes, and the vase of pink roses on the desk, and imagined the young honeymoon couples who had sealed their marriage in the room. And she wondered how many of them were still together.

Between sc.r.a.ps of sleep, she spent the night listening to doors banging as guests returned, and the intermittent shrieks of laughter coming from the room above. The following morning, despite the grandeur of the dining room with its white linen napkins, polished silverware, and uniformed waiters, Hebe Jones skipped breakfast, preferring the familiarity of people's lost possessions. After sliding her suitcase underneath her desk, she went to the original Victorian counter and opened one of the ledgers to the previous day. As her eyes fell down the entries, she saw that Samuel c.r.a.pper had been in to collect the same tomato plant that he had lost earlier in the month, a hand-written musical score had been discovered on the Hammersmith & City line, and a new wedding dress had been found on a bench at Tottenham Court Road station.

She sat at her desk, and was still looking at the phone directory in defeat when Valerie Jennings arrived and stood next to the inflatable doll, unb.u.t.toning her navy coat. "Feeling better?" she asked Hebe Jones.

"Yes, thanks," she replied, immediately noticing something different about her colleague. Mascara had brought out her eyes from behind her gla.s.ses, an embellishment normally reserved for her birthday lunch at the Hotel Splendid. Instead of her usual flat, black shoes, her wide feet were wedged inside a pair of high heels. And instead of holding a white cardboard box from the high street bakery containing a little something for elevenses, Valerie Jennings was carrying a brown paper bag containing what looked suspiciously like fresh fruit.

"When are you seeing Arthur Catnip again?" Hebe Jones asked.

Valerie Jennings immediately looked away. "I don't know," she replied, hanging up her coat. "I haven't heard from him." She then unfolded her newspaper and handed it to Hebe Jones. "Remember that man I told you about who came into the tea hut and asked whether we'd seen a bearded pig?" she asked. "Apparently it escaped from London Zoo and it's still on the loose."

Hebe Jones looked at the front-page photograph taken of the creature while still in its enclosure, its resplendent snout whiskers stretching across several columns. She handed it back to her colleague with a shudder, and returned to the directory. She peered at where she had left off, picked up the phone, and dialled the number.

"Is that Mrs. Perkins?" she asked when it was finally answered.

"Yes."

"This is Mrs. Jones from London Underground Lost Property Office. Something has been handed in to us that relates to a Clementine Perkins who died last year. I was wondering whether you happen to have known her."

There was a moment's silence.

"You've found it?" came the eventual reply. "We haven't been able to rest since it went missing. My husband will be so pleased. I'm not sure how to get to you though. I'm not too good on my legs and my husband doesn't go uptown anymore. He says there are so many people he just ends up walking on the spot, and then it's time to come home again."

"Would you like me to bring it round? It's not something I want to put in the post."