Part 13 (1/2)

His eyes returned to the urn. ”They gave me such a wretched thing to carry Clementine home in. I couldn't bear the thought of her being in it, so I had something special made for her. It's pomegranate wood. The fruit is a symbol of everlasting life.”

They sat in silence as the gas fire hissed.

Reginald Perkins suddenly turned to his visitor. ”I think I'd better find Clementine a resting place before I lose her again. Would you care to help me?” he asked.

Hebe Jones followed him into the back garden, where he stood, a trowel in one hand, contemplating the borders. He knelt down stiffly on his worn-out knees, and dug a hole in the earth. Picking up the urn that had spent so many weeks on Hebe Jones's desk, he gave it one final kiss, then placed it inside, and covered it with dark, moist soil. She helped him to his feet, and he stood surveying his handiwork.

”She'll get the sun there,” he said with a smile. When there was no reply, he turned and looked at his visitor.

”Let's get you inside, luvvie,” he said when he saw the tear fall.

When Hebe Jones was back on the sofa, warming her fingers on a fresh cup of tea, she told Reginald Perkins about the terrible, terrible day. When she had finished, she added: ”We still haven't even scattered his ashes. We couldn't decide where. Neither of us could bear to talk about it.”

”Where are they now?”

”Still in the back of the wardrobe.”

It was Reginald Perkins who was left holding a cup of tea that had chilled as he listened. He put it down on the table and sat back. After a while he said: ”At least you've still got your husband. That should be some comfort.”

Hebe Jones stared at the ball of sodden tissue in her hand. ”I haven't,” she replied, and she told him how she had walked out with her suitcase and hadn't spoken to her husband since. ”What I can't forgive is that he's never even cried.”

The old man looked at her. ”We might love each other in the same way,” he said, ”but it doesn't mean that we grieve in the same way.”

Hebe Jones looked at him through a veil of tears. ”It makes me wonder whether he ever loved him.”

Reginald Perkins held up a crooked finger. ”Did you ever wonder whether he loved the boy when he was alive?” he asked.

”Never.”

”There's your answer, luvvie,” he said, lowering his hand.

SITTING IN HIS WHITE WROUGHT-IRON CHAIR, Rev. Septimus Drew gazed out over the fortress from his rooftop garden. Through four varieties of sage ravished by winter he watched a group of tourists standing in contemplation at the scaffold site, and another wandering out of Waterloo Barracks mesmerised by the s.h.i.+mmering vision of the Crown Jewels. His eyes turned towards the chapel, and he thought again of what Ruby Dore had said to him in the Well Tower. Was he really fit to call himself a servant of G.o.d? It was a question that had plagued him since his literary career took off, but the transformation of the ladies, who nurtured the kitchen garden with more tenderness than they had ever shown themselves, had always chased away his doubts. Rev. Septimus Drew gazed out over the fortress from his rooftop garden. Through four varieties of sage ravished by winter he watched a group of tourists standing in contemplation at the scaffold site, and another wandering out of Waterloo Barracks mesmerised by the s.h.i.+mmering vision of the Crown Jewels. His eyes turned towards the chapel, and he thought again of what Ruby Dore had said to him in the Well Tower. Was he really fit to call himself a servant of G.o.d? It was a question that had plagued him since his literary career took off, but the transformation of the ladies, who nurtured the kitchen garden with more tenderness than they had ever shown themselves, had always chased away his doubts.

Filled with regret that his relations.h.i.+p with the landlady was over before it had begun, he saw himself in years to come still sitting on the sofa with the unruly spring in his melancholy bachelor's sitting room. Unable to bear the vision any longer, he rose to his feet and trudged down the stairs. Opening the door to his study, he sat down at his desk to write a sermon. But inspiration evaded him. He got up and looked for it out of the window, then studied the floorboards that he started to pace. When it still failed to arrive, he sat in his worn leather armchair with his eyes closed, waiting for it to descend from heaven. But the only thing that dropped was a dusty spider, its legs clutched neatly together in death. He got to his feet and stood on the singed rag rug before the hearth, gazing up at the portrait of the Virgin Mary, the brushwork of which had seduced his father into buying it for his bride on their honeymoon. But the memories of his parents' happy marriage immediately drove his thoughts back to Ruby Dore, and his torment increased. His gaze came to rest on the white embossed invitation to the Erotic Fiction Awards, propped up on the mantelpiece. He picked it up and looked at it, the gold edging glittering in the embers of the afternoon light. In a moment of utter lunacy, which he later put down to acute stress, he took off his ca.s.sock and dog collar, put on his coat, and headed out of the Tower to buy himself a wig.

It was easier than the chaplain had imagined to transform himself into Vivienne Ventress. He had known exactly where to go, having pa.s.sed the shop on numerous occasions on his way to his favourite butcher's. The Spanish salesman, dressed in a frock that did nothing for a figure destroyed by patatas bravas, immediately came to his rescue. After picking out a shoulder-length brunette wig, the a.s.sistant riffled through his racks for something smart enough for dinner, but discreet enough not to attract attention. Rev. Septimus Drew contemplated each option with mounting horror, and refused to try any of them on. The salesman returned to his racks and with the furious, quick movements of the piqued, selected a second batch. Amongst them the clergyman spotted a plain black long-sleeved dress, which he was willing to take into the changing room. And not even the difficulty of clambering into it with his excessively long legs snapped him out of his madness.

When he drew back the curtain, his wig in place, the a.s.sistant clasped his hands together and ushered the chaplain to the mirror in the middle of the shop. Both men c.o.c.ked their heads to one side and knew instantly that nothing could trump the long black frock with the charming row of pearl b.u.t.tons. After broaching the delicate matter of underwear, the a.s.sistant disappeared into the back and returned with a large cardboard box. He opened it with a flourish, revealing a pair of black pumps of such colossal size an entire colony of rats could have set sail in them. By the time the a.s.sistant had finished his terrifying a.s.sault with the weapons in his make-up bag, Rev. Septimus Drew, looking at his reflection, was convinced that he looked even more alluring than the bearded Lord Nithsdale had when he escaped from the Tower in a skirt.

Wearing his heavy overcoat, he stood on the opposite side of the road to the Park Lane hotel, where the ceremony was being held, feeling the wind through his tights. When he had gathered his courage, he crossed the road with the c.u.mbersome gait of a man not used to the feminine pitch of heels. Not daring to raise his eyes from underneath his crow's-wing lashes, he flashed his invitation at the woman on the door and slipped into the ballroom, where the guests were already seated around tables set for dinner. Standing at the back, away from the candlelight, he refused each invitation to sit down, having caught the attention of a number of single gentlemen. As the ceremony began, he resisted the urge to offer up a prayer for victory, and resorted instead to evoking the pagan G.o.d of good fortune by crossing his fingers. With his back against the wall to ease the ache caused by his footwear, he watched as the winners were called one by one to the stage, his only consolation being the conviction that his was the most elegant gown.

When the master of ceremonies left the stage and the waitresses filed in with the first course, the clergyman slipped out through the nearest door and found himself in the bar. He sank into an armchair and only remembered to close his legs when the waiter approached to take his order. He remained where he was for over an hour, distracted from the pinch of his shoes as he sat under the rockfall of failure. He was eventually brought round by the waiter asking him whether he wanted another drink, and he got up to go home. As he pa.s.sed the door to the ballroom, he glanced in and saw that the master of ceremonies had returned to the stage.

”And now,” the man said, leaning towards the microphone, ”the moment you've all been waiting for. It gives me great pleasure to announce the overall winner ...”

Rev. Septimus Drew crept in for his final moment of humiliation. The man in the bow tie then opened an envelope, looked up, and uttered two words that sent the chaplain into a state of shock. He failed to hear the subsequent praise for Vivienne Ventress's unique prose: the teasing c.h.i.n.ks left for the reader's imagination; the moralistic voice never previously heard in the genre; and her absolute belief in the existence of true love, which gave her work an extraordinary quaintness that rivals had tried to imitate without success.

It was the sight of his publisher getting to his feet to accept the award on Miss Ventress's behalf that catapulted the chaplain towards the stage. He glided up the steps with his head bowed and received the award with a flutter of his crow's-wing eyelashes. Despite the loud chorus of ”speech!” he left the stage without uttering a word. And he maintained his demure silence all the way to the door, through which he escaped at speed, clutching his shoes before his publisher could shake his hairy hand.

REV. SEPTIMUS DREW WAS ALREADY SNORING, the award standing on the bedside table next to him, when Balthazar Jones took to the battlements to exercise the bearded pig. Halfway through their moonlit walk, he stopped and lowered himself to the ground. As he leant against the cold, ancient wall, hidden from the sentry, he was grateful for the warmth of the creature resting its head on his thigh, sending clouds of turnip-scented breath into the diamond-studded sky. Fingering its lead, he thought once again about the chaplain's words in the Brick Tower. Eventually, when he had made his decision, he gently shook the pig awake and, making sure they wouldn't be spotted, returned to the Develin Tower so it could continue its dreams. the award standing on the bedside table next to him, when Balthazar Jones took to the battlements to exercise the bearded pig. Halfway through their moonlit walk, he stopped and lowered himself to the ground. As he leant against the cold, ancient wall, hidden from the sentry, he was grateful for the warmth of the creature resting its head on his thigh, sending clouds of turnip-scented breath into the diamond-studded sky. Fingering its lead, he thought once again about the chaplain's words in the Brick Tower. Eventually, when he had made his decision, he gently shook the pig awake and, making sure they wouldn't be spotted, returned to the Develin Tower so it could continue its dreams.

As he headed home, he heard the mournful cry of the wandering albatross across the darkened fortress. Making his way to the Brick Tower in order to comfort it, he was joined by a group of Beefeaters returning home from the Rack & Ruin, having been asked to leave by the landlady for conspiring to seize the threepenny bit. They stopped outside the White Tower, where the men complimented him on the success of the menagerie, and each told him their favourite animal, which they admitted to visiting with a tasty little something when the tourists had left.

Suddenly the wind picked up and the hanging parrot, giddy from a series of furious revolutions as it clutched the weathervane above them, opened its toes. And as it plunged headfirst towards the ground, it let out a l.u.s.ty moan that reduced the Beefeaters to silence, followed by the words: ”f.u.c.k me, Ravenmaster!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SITTING BARE-CHESTED on his side of the bed, Balthazar Jones fed his pale feet into his crimson tights. He stood and hauled them up over his thighs and stomach, performing a low plie in order to raise the gusset. Striding across the room, the nylon hissing between his thighs, he pulled open the wardrobe door in search of his matching breeches. But the sudden movement caused it to collapse, having never fully recovered from being dismantled when it was first brought up the spiral staircase eight years ago. on his side of the bed, Balthazar Jones fed his pale feet into his crimson tights. He stood and hauled them up over his thighs and stomach, performing a low plie in order to raise the gusset. Striding across the room, the nylon hissing between his thighs, he pulled open the wardrobe door in search of his matching breeches. But the sudden movement caused it to collapse, having never fully recovered from being dismantled when it was first brought up the spiral staircase eight years ago.

Swearing in Greek, a habit picked up from his wife, the Beefeater hunted amongst the ruins for the rest of his red state dress uniform, which Oswin Fielding had advised him to wear when he rang moments earlier, requesting that he come to the Palace at once. Placing the tunic and breeches on the bed, he rushed to the trouser press and extracted his white linen ruff, which scalded his fingers. After attaching red, white, and blue rosettes to his knees and his shoes, he reached for his Tudor bonnet from the top of the wardrobe and fled down the stairs.

He spent the journey in the cab, pitched forward so as not to crush the back of his ruff, gripped by fear. Had the Portuguese found out about the death of the Etruscan shrew, he wondered, or had someone discovered the bearded pig? Maybe the Queen had suddenly realised that no one had ever given her four giraffes, and had decided to hand his job to someone else? By the time he arrived at the Palace, he had worked himself up into such a state that he could barely talk.

After being shown into a side door by a police officer, he was met by a silent footman whose polished buckled shoes were equally silent as they pa.s.sed along the corridor of dense blue carpet. He escorted the Beefeater to Oswin Fielding's office and knocked. Given the order to enter, he opened the door and stood back to let in Balthazar Jones. The equerry immediately rose to his feet. ”Yeoman Warder Jones! Do have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Balthazar Jones silently took off his Tudor bonnet and sat down, holding on to the brim.

”What we need is a cup of tea,” the equerry announced, picking up the phone. After requesting that some be brought, he added hastily: ”No shortbread.”

He then sat back in his chair, crossed his fingers over his stomach, and asked: ”So, all well with you?”

The Beefeater ran his palms down the armrests to dry them. ”Fine,” he replied.

”And the boy? How's he?”

”What boy?” he asked.

”You said you had a son. What's his name?”

There was a pause.

”Milo,” Balthazar Jones replied.

”Nice name. Italian?”

”Greek.”

”Has your wife ... ?”

”No.”