Part 7 (1/2)

”That would be very kind of you.”

It didn't take Hebe Jones long to find the house, which stood out from the others in the street due to its overgrown lawn. She pushed open the rotten gate, which felt rough under her fingers on account of the peeling paint. Warmed at the thought of having finally found the urn's owner, she walked along the concrete path, looked at the ”No Hawkers” sign, and rang the bell. When there was no reply, she checked to see that she had the right house number. She rang again, and eventually an elderly woman wearing a pink dressing gown opened the door.

”Mrs. Perkins?”

”Yes,” the woman replied, squinting in the light.

”I'm Mrs. Jones from London Underground Lost Property Office. We spoke on the phone.”

”Oh, yes, I remember,” she said, stepping back. ”Come in, love. Cup of tea?”

While the woman was in the kitchen, Hebe Jones found somewhere to sit in the chaos of the living room and gazed around at the slumped piles of free newspapers on the floor, the cabinets over-filled with cheap ornaments, and the unwashed dishes balanced on the mantelpiece.

Eventually Mrs. Perkins returned with a tray bearing two cups and saucers and placed it on the coffee table. ”Biscuit?” she asked, holding out a plate. When Hebe Jones declined, she helped herself, moved a pile of unopened letters from the armchair, and sat down. ”What did you say your name was again?” she asked.

”Hebe.”

”That's a nice name. I've got some in the back garden,” she said, nodding towards the French windows.

Hebe Jones picked up her cup and saucer and rested them on her knees. ”I was actually named after the G.o.ddess of youth, rather than the plant.”

There was a pause.

”I thought my parents had named me Flora after the G.o.ddess of flowers. Turns out I was named after the margarine,” Mrs. Perkins replied, staring in front of her.

Hebe Jones looked down at her tea.

”What did you come about, again?” the old woman asked.

”Clementine.”

”Oh, yes. We loved her so much,” she said, reaching for a tissue in her dressing gown pocket. ”She was getting on a bit, and we knew she was going to pa.s.s away sooner or later, but it's always a shock when it happens. Even now I can't believe she's gone. I still keep imagining her walking in here through those doors, and sitting where you are now. We buried her in the back garden. It had meant so much to her. She was always out there, pottering amongst the rosebushes.”

”I see,” replied Hebe Jones, still holding her cup.

”My husband reckons it was one of those urban foxes that dug her up again. Attracted to the smell.”

”The smell?”

”Things start to rot, don't they? I told my husband not to use that cardboard box, but he insisted. I said Clementine deserved better, but he said I was being too sentimental. So I wrote her name on it to make it a bit more special,” said Mrs. Perkins, fiddling with a thread on the end of the armrest.

”When we discovered that she'd been dug up, we were heartbroken. Some people just couldn't understand. We expected her to turn up in one of the neighbour's gardens, but you said she was found on the Tube. That doesn't seem right to me. I reckon that lot next door had something to do with it. They never did like her. She kept piddling against their new greenhouse. But cats won't be told,” she added, finally taking a bite of her Custard Cream.

AFTER CHECKING THAT THE WORKMEN had erected all the signs in readiness for the opening of the royal menagerie that afternoon, Balthazar Jones let himself into the Develin Tower. He caught the bearded pig in a state of unfettered ecstasy, its eyes shut and hairy nose pointed heavenwards as it rubbed its considerable flank against the corner of the stone fireplace. The Beefeater sat down on the straw, resting his back against the circular stone wall, and stretched his legs out in front of him. On seeing its keeper, the animal sent the battered grapefruit flying to the other side of the room and charged after it. Once it had caught up, the pig turned its head towards the man with inferior whiskers. There was no response. Lobbing the fruit again with its snout, it galloped after it, its ta.s.selled tail flying like a flag over its fulsome b.u.t.tocks. It looked again at the Beefeater staring blindly ahead, but received not the least encouragement. The pig slowly made its way across the straw, and lay down next to him, pressing its back against his thigh. had erected all the signs in readiness for the opening of the royal menagerie that afternoon, Balthazar Jones let himself into the Develin Tower. He caught the bearded pig in a state of unfettered ecstasy, its eyes shut and hairy nose pointed heavenwards as it rubbed its considerable flank against the corner of the stone fireplace. The Beefeater sat down on the straw, resting his back against the circular stone wall, and stretched his legs out in front of him. On seeing its keeper, the animal sent the battered grapefruit flying to the other side of the room and charged after it. Once it had caught up, the pig turned its head towards the man with inferior whiskers. There was no response. Lobbing the fruit again with its snout, it galloped after it, its ta.s.selled tail flying like a flag over its fulsome b.u.t.tocks. It looked again at the Beefeater staring blindly ahead, but received not the least encouragement. The pig slowly made its way across the straw, and lay down next to him, pressing its back against his thigh.

Oblivious to the damp seeping through his tunic, Balthazar Jones wondered again where his wife had spent the night, and hoped she hadn't been cold without her nightdress. Suddenly he felt a chill as he imagined her having all the warmth she needed in someone else's arms. He picked up a piece of straw and started to fiddle with it, remembering the day, all those years ago, when she had promised to be his forever.

Balthazar Jones invited Hebe Grammatikos to Hampstead Ponds two years after they met with the sole motivation of wanting to see her in her red bikini. When they arrived, she immediately took up a horizontal position on the bank in her new swimwear, her hair forming a black halo on the gra.s.s. When he tried to lure her into the water, she insisted that it was too cold. But the country was experiencing a record-breaking heat wave that had led to the dismissal of a weatherman for a prediction of continual clouds. Refusing to accept her argument, Balthazar Jones eventually talked her into the freshwater pond. It was only when the young soldier went to fetch his camera, and turned to look at her from the bank, that it occurred to him she might not be able to swim. He watched as she disappeared without a sound into the dusty water shaded by the overhanging oak trees. Several seconds later, she rose again, her hair floating on the water like an oil slick.

When she immediately sunk again he thrashed towards her and groped with desperate hands for her body. Unable to find her, he breathed in and dived underwater, but failed to see anything in the murky depths. It was only when desperation sharpened his vision that he saw a tendril of black hair floating on the top of the water in the distance. After grabbing her body, as slippery as an eel, he hauled her back to the bank. As he held her, her eyes rolling, he asked her to marry him, as he would rather be betrothed to the dying Hebe Grammatikos than to any other woman alive.

When she eventually came round in the hospital, a piece of pondweed still in her mouth, she was congratulated by the nursing staff for not only having survived, but also for being engaged to be married. During the sultry days of their engagement, while lost in the contentment of each other's arms, they often spoke of the proposal that had been so much more romantic than anything Balthazar Jones could have planned. Hebe Jones's only regret was that she had no memory of his asking her to marry him, as she recalled nothing after walking into the water in the hope that the ability to swim would suddenly come to her like a holy miracle. Each time she asked Balthazar Jones what her reply had been, he would quote back her words that evoked the Greek mysticism of her grandparents: ”It is better to tie your donkey than to look for it.”

THE BEEFEATER WAS BROUGHT ROUND from his memories by a sudden snort from the dreaming bearded pig. Getting up gently so as not to disturb it, he looked at his watch, brushed himself down, and hurried off to meet the man from the Palace before the menagerie opened. from his memories by a sudden snort from the dreaming bearded pig. Getting up gently so as not to disturb it, he looked at his watch, brushed himself down, and hurried off to meet the man from the Palace before the menagerie opened.

When he pushed open the door of the Rack & Ruin, he saw Oswin Fielding already sitting at the table next to the framed signature of Rudolph Hess. He approached the landlady and ordered an orange juice, despite his urge for a pint. He carried it past the tables occupied by numerous Beefeaters on their lunch break, and sat down opposite the courtier.

”I'm sorry to hear about your wife,” said Oswin Fielding.

Balthazar Jones stared at him. ”How did you hear about that?” he asked.

”It was mentioned. You have my sympathies. My wife left me several years ago. You never get over it.”

Both men stared at their gla.s.ses.

”Anyway,” said the courtier eventually. ”Back to the matters at hand. All set for the opening?”

”Yes,” replied the Beefeater. ”Any news about the penguins?”

”Unfortunately not. Thankfully the Argentine Emba.s.sy hasn't been in touch, so it seems they're none the wiser. Let's hope they remain that way. We have, however, heard from someone in the Brazilian President's office. It was he who gave the Queen the Geoffroy's marmosets, if you remember. The chap wanted to know why they were flas.h.i.+ng their private parts in those photographs taken with you, which, as he pointed out, were used all around the world.”

The Beefeater glanced away. ”Apparently it's something they do when they sense danger,” he muttered.

The equerry frowned. ”Really?” he asked. ”I wasn't entirely sure, so I told them it must have been your uniform.”

”My uniform? What did he say to that?”

”He said that he found it hard to imagine why monkeys would find the sight of a Beefeater in any way s.e.xually alluring. I tried to explain that the Tower of London attracts more than two million visitors a year from all around the world, and they weren't just coming to see the Crown Jewels. 'History's a big turn-on,' I said.”

”What did he say to that?”

The equerry reached for his gla.s.s. ”I'm not entirely sure,” he said. ”It was in Portuguese. Then he hung up.”

WHEN THE TIME CAME to open the royal menagerie to the public, Balthazar Jones unlocked the gate that led to the moat. A line of visitors who had been queuing for several hours immediately surged through. The Beefeater followed them in case there were any questions, despite his fear that he would be unable to answer them. They stopped at the empty penguin enclosure and read the information panel that he had had erected, stating that the birds were not only amongst the smallest breeds of penguin in the world, but also the most opportunistic. The tourists happily accepted the Beefeater's explanation that they were at the vet's, and then clattered their way along the boardwalk to inspect the President of Russia's gift. Stopping at a sign that said: ”Please Feed Me,” they stood and stared at the small bear-like creature with yellow stripes running down its brown fur. After the rec.u.mbent glutton emitted an undignified belch, a young girl asked Balthazar Jones how much the creature ate. ”Even more than the Yeoman Gaoler,” he replied. to open the royal menagerie to the public, Balthazar Jones unlocked the gate that led to the moat. A line of visitors who had been queuing for several hours immediately surged through. The Beefeater followed them in case there were any questions, despite his fear that he would be unable to answer them. They stopped at the empty penguin enclosure and read the information panel that he had had erected, stating that the birds were not only amongst the smallest breeds of penguin in the world, but also the most opportunistic. The tourists happily accepted the Beefeater's explanation that they were at the vet's, and then clattered their way along the boardwalk to inspect the President of Russia's gift. Stopping at a sign that said: ”Please Feed Me,” they stood and stared at the small bear-like creature with yellow stripes running down its brown fur. After the rec.u.mbent glutton emitted an undignified belch, a young girl asked Balthazar Jones how much the creature ate. ”Even more than the Yeoman Gaoler,” he replied.

As the group headed towards the giraffes, the Beefeater immediately suggested that they go to see the d.u.c.h.ess of York before there was a queue. There was an instant murmur of agreement, and he led them into the fortress to the Devereux Tower. Once the tourists had gotten over their disappointment that they were not actually in the presence of Princess Diana's former sister-in-law, but rather a blue-faced, snub-nosed monkey with t.i.tian hair, they got out their cameras declaring that the resemblance was nevertheless remarkable. The Beefeater offered to take them to see the birds next, but they were unable to move because of the crowds flocking up the stairs to see the Geoffroy's marmosets in all their glory.

IRRITATED BY THE SUDDEN INCREASE in tourists, the Yeoman Gaoler crossed Tower Green, stopping to point one of them in the direction of the Tower Cafe. After wis.h.i.+ng her good luck, he continued on to the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula, wondering whether he would ever sleep through the night again. He had been woken in the early hours by the sound of leather boots striding back and forth across the dining room below. Instead of profanities about the Spanish, the house had been filled with poetic entreaties to a woman by the name of Cynthia. It hadn't been long before the stench of tobacco started to seep underneath his bedroom door, increasing his yearning for a cigarette. He remained in bed, his sheets drawn up to his chin, fearing not only for his potatoes, but for the life of Her Majesty's highly strung shrew. in tourists, the Yeoman Gaoler crossed Tower Green, stopping to point one of them in the direction of the Tower Cafe. After wis.h.i.+ng her good luck, he continued on to the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula, wondering whether he would ever sleep through the night again. He had been woken in the early hours by the sound of leather boots striding back and forth across the dining room below. Instead of profanities about the Spanish, the house had been filled with poetic entreaties to a woman by the name of Cynthia. It hadn't been long before the stench of tobacco started to seep underneath his bedroom door, increasing his yearning for a cigarette. He remained in bed, his sheets drawn up to his chin, fearing not only for his potatoes, but for the life of Her Majesty's highly strung shrew.