The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise Part 14

When the landlady appeared, apologising for having taken so long, the clergyman guided her towards the shadows at the back of the room. He glanced behind him to make sure that he wouldn't be heard, and told her of his decision: "I'm going to leave the Church," he said, looking at her through the gloom.

The chaplain explained how he thought he could do more of G.o.d's work at the shelter than at the Tower, whose congregation only seemed to come to his sermons to warm themselves against the radiators. His publishers had offered him another six-book deal with an even bigger advance than the first, which meant that he would be able to rescue many more ladies than he could at the moment. Not only that, but the succulence of the vegetables they grew was such that they had just secured a contract to supply a local restaurant.

There was silence.

"Where will you live?" Ruby Dore finally asked, fiddling with the end of her scarf.

"I'm going to rent a little place near the shelter. I don't need much."

Ruby Dore glanced away. "I haven't been entirely truthful with you either," she admitted. "I'm not going to be able to hide it forever, so I may as well tell you. I'm going to have a baby."

It was Rev. Septimus Drew's turn to be quiet, and both of them looked at the floor. The landlady eventually broke the silence. "I'd better get back to work," she said.

As she turned to leave, the clergyman suddenly found himself asking: "Do you fancy visiting the Florence Nightingale Museum sometime? One of the exhibits is her pet owl called Athena."

Ruby Dore stopped and looked at him.

"She rescued it in Athens, and it travelled everywhere in her pocket. She loved it so much she had it stuffed when it died," he added.

VALERIE JENNINGS LAY ON HER BACK in the empty sarcophagus, breathing in the dusty remains of an ancient Egyptian. She closed her eyes in the cedar-scented gloom, having just discovered that her favourite obscure nineteenth-century novelist had remained a spinster all her life. in the empty sarcophagus, breathing in the dusty remains of an ancient Egyptian. She closed her eyes in the cedar-scented gloom, having just discovered that her favourite obscure nineteenth-century novelist had remained a spinster all her life.

Not even the sudden appearance of Dustin Hoffman at the original Victorian counter that morning had managed to lift her mood. She had simply asked for some identification and, without a word to Hebe Jones about the exalted presence at the counter, collected the Oscar that had been standing on her desk for the past two years. She handed it to the actor as if she were reuniting a member of the general public with a lost set of door keys.

Opening her eyes, she stared at the underside of the lid, its decoration visible in the light that came in courtesy of a hardback placed under the lid to prevent suffocation. Once again she thought how ridiculous she must have seemed to Arthur Catnip, whom she hadn't heard from since their dinner together. And she bitterly regretted having worn someone else's dress to dinner with him.

Suddenly there was a polite knock on the sarcophagus's lid. It had taken a while for Hebe Jones to find her colleague. She had walked the aisles of mislaid possessions piled up on metal shelves stretching far into the distance, until she came across a pair of flat black shoes with rubber soles. She looked around, turning three hundred and sixty degrees in the process, but it seemed that Valerie Jennings had vanished. Eventually her eyes fell to the sarcophagus, and she spotted the book wedged underneath the lid.

Hearing the knock, Valerie Jennings sat up like Dracula rising from his coffin. Smelling strongly of cedar wood, she clambered out, made her way silently back to her desk, and opened a packet of Bakewell slices.

Hebe Jones followed her and sat down. "I just asked one of the ticket inspectors why we haven't seen Arthur Catnip, and he said that he hadn't been to work for ages," she said. "Nor has he called them to explain why he hasn't come in. Someone went to his house, but there was no reply and his neighbour hadn't seen him either. They're really worried about him."

Valerie Jennings remained silent.

"Why don't you try and find him?" Hebe Jones suggested.

"I wouldn't know where to start," she replied.

"If you can find the owner of the safe after five years, you can find a tattooed ticket inspector."

Valerie Jennings looked at her. "Do you really think something's happened to him?" she asked.

"People don't just disappear like that. Especially him. He never even liked taking his holidays. Why don't you ring round the hospitals?"

"Maybe he just got sick of the job."

"They said all his stuff is still in his locker."

Unconvinced, Valerie Jennings reached for the phone book. A few minutes later she replaced the receiver.

"Well?" asked Hebe Jones.

"They don't have a patient there by that name."

"Try the next one. The tree wasn't felled by one stroke," she said.

Less than half an hour later, Valerie Jennings moved aside a discarded copy of the Evening Standard Evening Standard and sat down heavily in a Tube carriage. She failed to notice the front-page story about the miraculous return of the bearded pig to London Zoo following its journey around Britain, and stared blindly ahead of her as the train started to rattle its way out of the station. and sat down heavily in a Tube carriage. She failed to notice the front-page story about the miraculous return of the bearded pig to London Zoo following its journey around Britain, and stared blindly ahead of her as the train started to rattle its way out of the station.

When she arrived at the hospital, Arthur Catnip was lying in a four-bed ward in much the same state that she had imagined. Despite his powers of intuition, he had not had the slightest premonition that he was going to suffer a heart attack more catastrophic than the first shortly after kissing Valerie Jennings on the well-swept steps of the Hotel Splendid, an oversight he later put down to being befuddled by love.

The sight of her in her navy coat, smeared gla.s.ses, and flat black shoes immediately set his monitors shrieking. When the nurses finally calmed him, Valerie Jennings was called from her seat outside the ward and permitted to approach the patient. She sat by the bed, took his cold hands in hers, and told him that when he was discharged he could convalesce on her armchair with the pop-up leg rest, and she would lend him the works of Miss E. Clutterbuck to keep up his spirits. She told him she would help him regain his strength by taking him for walks around the local park, despite the geese, and if he fell into the duck pond she would pull him out herself, no matter how little hair he had left. And she told him that when he had fully recovered, she would pay for them to go on a cruise with the reward she had been given by the owner of the safe he had found on the Circle Line five years ago, and he could show her the island on which he had been marooned after falling overboard sodden with cider while in the Navy.

By the time she had finished, the warmth had returned to Arthur Catnip's hands. As she began to walk out of the ward he finally opened his eyes and turned his head. "I like your shoes," he said.

HEBE JONES OPENED THE DRAWER containing one hundred and fifty-seven pairs of false teeth and dropped another neatly labelled pair inside. Returning to her desk, she looked again at the bouquet of flowers from Reginald Perkins, and she thought of his wife tucked up safe and warm amongst her daffodils. Just as she put the tiny Chinese slippers into the mailbag, she heard the Swiss cowbell. Turning the corner, she saw Samuel c.r.a.pper standing at the original Victorian counter, the tips of his ochre hair standing up in triumph. containing one hundred and fifty-seven pairs of false teeth and dropped another neatly labelled pair inside. Returning to her desk, she looked again at the bouquet of flowers from Reginald Perkins, and she thought of his wife tucked up safe and warm amongst her daffodils. Just as she put the tiny Chinese slippers into the mailbag, she heard the Swiss cowbell. Turning the corner, she saw Samuel c.r.a.pper standing at the original Victorian counter, the tips of his ochre hair standing up in triumph.

"Someone handed in your briefcase yesterday. Sorry, I meant to ring you," she said.

"Did they?" he asked. "I didn't know I'd lost it. I've come because I've actually found something for a change." He then picked up a large Hamleys shopping bag and put it on the counter. "It was on the seat next to me on the Bakerloo Line and was still there when everyone got off. I forgot to bring it in, so it's been sitting at home for a few days, I'm afraid. I can't for the life of me work out what it is."

Hebe Jones pulled the object out of the bag and looked at it. Eventually she was able to speak. "It's a cabinet of rain samples," she said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BALTHAZAR JONES STOOD on the bridge above the raven burial ground, where a tiny freshly dug grave contained the remains of an Etruscan shrew. As he watched the workmen dismantling the enclosures in the moat, he was struck once again by how empty the place seemed without the animals. Unable to watch, he made his way up Water Lane, pa.s.sing the b.l.o.o.d.y Tower with its red rambling rose said to have produced snow-white blossoms before the death of the two little princes. No longer bothering to look around him in case he was being watched, he unlocked the door to the Develin Tower and started to sweep up the straw that had once warmed the belly of the bearded pig. As he worked his brush into the corner next to the vast stone fireplace, he discovered Hebe Jones's mouldering grapefruit. on the bridge above the raven burial ground, where a tiny freshly dug grave contained the remains of an Etruscan shrew. As he watched the workmen dismantling the enclosures in the moat, he was struck once again by how empty the place seemed without the animals. Unable to watch, he made his way up Water Lane, pa.s.sing the b.l.o.o.d.y Tower with its red rambling rose said to have produced snow-white blossoms before the death of the two little princes. No longer bothering to look around him in case he was being watched, he unlocked the door to the Develin Tower and started to sweep up the straw that had once warmed the belly of the bearded pig. As he worked his brush into the corner next to the vast stone fireplace, he discovered Hebe Jones's mouldering grapefruit.

Under an endless cinder sky, he crossed the fortress and made his final journey up the Brick Tower's spiral staircase. The workmen had already taken away the aviary fencing, as well as the trees in their pots and the artificial perches. All that remained of its previous occupants were the seed husks covering the floor, dried droppings, and the white feathers shed by the wandering albatross. As he began to sweep the floor, he remembered the conversation he had had with Rev. Septimus Drew amongst the birds, and his subsequent decision to try and get his wife back. But despite the samples he had left on the Tube hoping Hebe Jones would come back, she had never gotten in touch, and the blade in his heart turned once more.

Picking up his black rubbish sack, he was about to leave when something on the windowsill caught his eye. He walked over and recognised one of the King of Saxony bird of paradise's prized brow feathers that stretched twice the length of its body, a sight so extraordinary that early ornithologists dismissed the first stuffed specimen as taxidermic trickery. He picked up the bewitching blue plume and studied it in the light. After drawing it slowly through his fingers, he curled it up and put it in his pocket.

As he walked back to the Salt Tower, he was stopped by an American tourist who asked him whether he was the Keeper of the Royal Menagerie.

"I am," the Beefeater replied.

"It's such a shame that they took the Queen's animals back to London Zoo," the visitor said, adjusting his baseball cap. "By all accounts, the Geoffroy's marmosets were a sight to be seen."

Balthazar Jones put down his bag. "Maybe it was for the best," he said, and he told the man about the wandering albatross that mated for life and had lost too many feathers mourning for its companion, which had remained at the zoo.

"I guess home is where the heart is," the American said with a smile. But the Beefeater was unable to reply.

Picking up his bag, he crossed the lawn in front of the White Tower and looked at the marks left by the enclosure that had housed the reclusive ringtail possums and the sugar glider. Hearing a shout, he turned to see the Ravenmaster standing in front of the odious birds' pens, calling mournfully to his charges so that he could say his goodbyes. It hadn't, in the end, been the Chief Yeoman Warder who had asked him to leave the Tower. He had refused to take the hanging parrot's words as any proof of wrongdoing, and had threatened to sack anyone repeating the historic cry within earshot of the tourists. It had, in fact, been the Ravenmaster's wife who insisted that their days at the Tower were over, recognising instantly the footprint of infidelity in the emerald shriek. She had suspected her husband's affairs over the years and had done nothing about them, reasoning that the more of his awkward intimacies he shared with others, the less she would have to endure herself. But the public exposure of his philandering by a parrot had been a humiliation too far. Waiting until their daughter was out of the kitchen, she turned round from the sink and informed him he would have to choose between her and the Tower. The Ravenmaster instantly picked his wife as he knew he was nothing without her. Leaving her husband to do the packing, she took the opportunity to go shopping, and eventually found the precise weapon she had been searching for in an antiquarian bookshop. And, as she watched the sales a.s.sistant wrap up the 1882 first edition of Vice Versa or A Lesson to Fathers Vice Versa or A Lesson to Fathers by F. Anstey, she very much hoped that her husband would find it as hilarious as the Victorian novelist Anthony Trollope had. For, while laughing at a family reading of it, the author had suffered a stroke and died the following month. by F. Anstey, she very much hoped that her husband would find it as hilarious as the Victorian novelist Anthony Trollope had. For, while laughing at a family reading of it, the author had suffered a stroke and died the following month.

When Balthazar Jones was called into the Chief Yeoman Warder's office in the Byward Tower earlier that morning, he had a.s.sumed he was going to have to account yet again for his lamentable record in catching pickpockets. Instead, the Chief Yeoman Warder had offered him the position of Ravenmaster. But the Beefeater immediately turned it down, keeping to himself his thoughts on the birds' villainous character. Still gripping the brim of his hat, he took the opportunity to ask if he could nevertheless move into the Ravenmaster's superior quarters to escape the Salt Tower's wretched damp, the mournful sound of chiselling, and the smell of Catholic priests' mouldering sandals. For a moment the Chief Yeoman Warder didn't reply, and engaged instead in a short burst of drumming with his embalmer's fingers. It was eventually followed by a sigh and the words: "If you must."

Balthazar Jones threw the black rubbish sack into the bin by the Tower Cafe and turned to see Rev. Septimus Drew striding past on his way to the Rack & Ruin, his nibbled red ca.s.sock billowing in the wind. The Beefeater immediately ran to catch him up and asked whether it was true that he was leaving the Tower. The chaplain invited him to the tavern, where they sat at the bar waiting to be served while the landlady confiscated the threepenny bit from the Tower doctor. He listened with regret as the clergyman told him that he would be gone by the end of the month.

"But what about our bowling?" Balthazar Jones asked.

Rev. Septimus Drew emptied his gla.s.s and put it on the beer mat in front of him. "Everyone has to move on eventually," he said. He then looked at his watch and apologised for not being able to stay any longer as he was taking Ruby Dore to see a little stuffed owl called Athena. He then put a hand on his old friend's arm and asked whether he had done anything to persuade Hebe Jones to come back following their talk in the aviary. Balthazar Jones nodded.

"Any joy?" the chaplain asked.

The Beefeater's eyes dropped to the bar.

"At least you tried," said the clergyman, filling the silence.

After finis.h.i.+ng his pint alone, the Beefeater wiped his mustache on the back of his hand and headed for the Salt Tower. As he climbed the spiral staircase, he heard the phone ringing and burst into the living room to answer it. But it was only the man from the Palace, and he sunk to the sofa.

"I thought you'd like to know that we've got the rockhopper penguins back," the equerry said.

The Beefeater leant back. "Where were they?" he asked.

"They'd got all the way to Milton Keynes. A police officer noticed them on a roundabout in the early hours of yesterday morning."

Once he had put down the phone, he made his way upstairs. Unable to bear the smell of Hebe Jones's absence any longer, he stripped the bed, leaving her nightdress on his pillow. As he opened the airing cupboard to fetch a clean set of sheets, he noticed the gentleman's white vest, and dropped it into the bin.

Confronted once more with the ruins of the wardrobe, he set about rea.s.sembling it. Once it was back on its feet, he picked up the clothes and started to hang them back up. Amongst the pile he found several of his wife's sweaters, and as he folded them he discovered Milo's urn. He picked it up and sat on the bed looking at it. He thought about all he had had in life, and all he had lost, and concluded that he had never deserved any of it in the first place. He dusted the urn gently with his handkerchief, stood up, and placed it on the windowsill.

Lying down on the clean bedclothes, he hoped to get some rest before resuming his duties. But he was unable to get comfortable because of the ache of solitude in his bones, and he immediately sat up again. He descended the stairs to the living room, but was unsettled by the sight of the front end of the pantomime horse. He wandered into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat at the table. But he soon got up again when he spotted the picture above the sink of three smiling figures, two large, one small, standing next to a colourful blob. Crossing back through the living room, he walked down the corpse-cold stairs.

He pushed open Milo's bedroom door and pulled back the curtains he had made all those years ago, filling the room with March's brutal light. He sat on the bed and ran a hand over the soft pillow where his son's head had once rested. He looked around at his possessions, which he would soon have to pack. Picking up the matchbox from the bookshelf, he slid it open and looked at the fifty-pence piece. He reached for the ammonite and ran his thumb over its contours. Opening the book on Greek G.o.ds on the nightstand, he flicked through the pages, stopping to look at a picture of Hermes and a tortoise. He didn't know how long he had been there when he suddenly heard a sound. When he looked up with eyes as pale as opals he saw Hebe Jones standing in the doorway with her suitcase.

Neither said a word. Eventually, she put down her case and came to sit next to her husband. Balthazar Jones spoke first. "It was me who killed Milo," he said, looking at the floor.

Hebe Jones raised a hand to her mouth. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, her eyes upon him.

The Beefeater haltingly told her about the argument he and Milo had the night he died, over the homework he had failed to finish, and his threat not to take the boy to the Science Museum at the weekend if it wasn't done in time.

"What's that got to do with anything?" she asked.

He reminded her of the words of the expert pathologist, spoken at the inquest for all to hear, that some children suffered sudden cardiac death after emotional stress.

Hebe Jones rested her hand on his thigh. "Is that what you've been thinking all these years?" she asked, searching his face. She then reminded him that the pathologist had also said that some died in their sleep, when they woke up, or while exercising, and Milo had been up and down the wretched stairs all evening.

She then gazed ahead of her in silence. At last she spoke: "If anything weakened that poor boy's heart it was the love he had for you."

His tears fell and fell and fell. And when they both thought it was finally over, they fell some more.

AFTER THEY HAD FINISHED TALKING, Hebe Jones unpacked her suitcase, checked on the daffodils blooming in her tubs on the roof, and discovered her nightgown on her husband's pillow. While it was still light, they descended the spiral steps and walked to the Tower wharf. Standing next to each other, they looked out across the stretch of the Thames where Henry III's polar bear used to fish for salmon while tied to a rope. When finally she was ready, he slowly took off the lid and turned the urn on its side. They watched as the ashes fluttered away with the breeze and came to rest on the water's silver surface. As they began their journey out to the sea, Hebe Jones reached for the hand she would hold forever. When they had disappeared from view, Balthazar Jones told her about the house he wanted to buy in Greece to escape the English rain when he retired, which would be on the coast so they could be with Milo forever. Hebe Jones unpacked her suitcase, checked on the daffodils blooming in her tubs on the roof, and discovered her nightgown on her husband's pillow. While it was still light, they descended the spiral steps and walked to the Tower wharf. Standing next to each other, they looked out across the stretch of the Thames where Henry III's polar bear used to fish for salmon while tied to a rope. When finally she was ready, he slowly took off the lid and turned the urn on its side. They watched as the ashes fluttered away with the breeze and came to rest on the water's silver surface. As they began their journey out to the sea, Hebe Jones reached for the hand she would hold forever. When they had disappeared from view, Balthazar Jones told her about the house he wanted to buy in Greece to escape the English rain when he retired, which would be on the coast so they could be with Milo forever.

Later that night, as they lay in the sanctuary of each other's arms, the magnificent blue brow plume used by grey songbirds to decorate their courts.h.i.+p bowers hung on the wall above their bed. And such was their contentment, neither of them heard the creaks as Mrs. Cook returned from her travels, an odious black feather still caught in her ancient mouth.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Live animals given to Her Majesty the Queen and placed in the care of London Zoo have included a canary from Germany, following a state visit in 1965; jaguars and sloths from Brazil in 1968; two black beavers from Canada in 1970; two giant tortoises from the Seych.e.l.les in 1972; an elephant called Jumbo from the President of Cameroon in the same year to mark the Queen's Silver Wedding Anniversary; and two more sloths, an armadillo, and an anteater from Brazil in 1976.

The animals most recently received from the Queen by the Zoological Society of London were six red kangaroos, kept at London Zoo, and two cranes sent to Whipsnade Zoo. They were presented by Melbourne Zoo in 1977 to mark Her Majesty's Silver Jubilee. One of the cranes is still alive.