Balthazar Jones and the Tower of London Zoo

The courtier then leant forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m sure you’ve guessed where the animals are to be newly lodged,’ he said.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Balthazar Jones, who was contemplating fetching himself a pint.

Oswin Fielding then lowered his voice and announced: ‘They are going to be transferred to the Tower to form a new royal menagerie.’

The Beefeater wondered whether the rain had rusted his eardrums.

‘It’s not as daft an idea as it sounds,’ the man from the Palace insisted. ‘Exotic beasts were kept at the Tower from the thirteenth century. Foreign powers continued to send the monarchy animals over the years, and the menagerie became an immensely popular tourist attraction. It didn’t close until the 1830s.’

Like all the Beefeaters, Balthazar Jones was well aware that the Tower had housed a menagerie, and often pointed out the remains of the Lion Tower to the tourists. He could even have told the equerry that the elephants were given red wine by their keepers to banish the cold, and that the lions were rumoured to have been able to determine whether or not a woman was a virgin, tales he used to stun the more irritating visitors into silence. But he didn’t utter a word.

Oswin Fielding continued: ‘Her Majesty very much hopes that the new menagerie will increase the number of visitors to the Tower, which has been declining.’ He paused before adding: ‘Hirsute gentlemen in antiquated uniforms are not much of an attraction these days. No disrespect to you, your trousers, or your beard.’

He paused yet again, but the only movement that came from the Beefeater was a raindrop plunging from the brim of his hat. Slowly, the courtier raised his eyes from the spot where it had landed.

‘It’s a little-known fact that Her Majesty is rather partial to tortoises,’ he said. ‘She is aware that you are in possession of the world’s oldest specimen, which, of course, is a source of great national pride. Such an animal undoubtedly requires the most tender care.’ And with a triumphant smile the man from the Palace added: ‘The Queen can think of no one better than you to oversee the project.’

Oswin Fielding patted Balthazar Jones on the shoulder, and then reached underneath the table to dry his hand on his trouser leg. As he stood up, he warned the Beefeater not to tell anyone of the plan, particularly the Chief Yeoman Warder, as details had yet to be ironed out. ‘We’re hoping to transfer the Queen’s animals in about three weeks’ time, and give them a few days to settle in before opening the menagerie to the public,’ he said.

Announcing that he would be in touch shortly, he put on his coat, and walked out with his splendid umbrella. Balthazar Jones remained on the red leather stool unable to move. He didn’t manage the monumental task of getting to his feet until he was asked to leave by the infuriated landlady who complained that the stench of mothballs had caused her canary to faint, and it had landed in the slops tray.

It had stopped raining by the time Hebe Jones returned to the Tower, having left work early on account of her headache. The sky remained an obstinate shade of used bathwater, ready to disgorge a second filthy load at any moment. She nodded at the Yeoman Gaoler, the Chief Yeoman Warder’s deputy, who was sitting in a black hut at the entrance to the Tower, a three-bar electric fire preventing the damp from decomposing his toes. When he enquired about the visit from the man from the Palace, Hebe Jones replied that there had been no such thing, or her husband would have called to inform her. But the Beefeater backed up the sighting with a further nine eyewitness accounts, each of whom he named while unfurling a plump finger.

‘Don’t sprout where you haven’t been planted,’ Hebe Jones snapped, and continued through the gates. Her passage was soon thwarted by a suffocation of tourists staring at the Beefeaters’ terrace houses along Mint Street. Feeling more than ever the weight of her supermarket shopping in each hand, she squeezed her way sideways up Water Lane, wishing that the visitors would indulge their lunatic weakness for British history elsewhere. As she passed Cradle Tower, she was struck sharply in the chest by a rucksack whose owner had turned to see the window from where two prisoners had escaped on a rope stretched across the moat in the sixteenth century. Once she had caught her breath, she continued on her journey, seeing nothing but the Greek cottage of her fantasies.

Arriving at the Salt Tower, she searched for the key that failed to fit into a pocket, and discovered that it had already torn the lining of her new handbag. After turning it in the lock, a feat that required both of her doll-sized hands, she made her way up the steps with half her bags, the narrowness of the spiral stairs preventing her from carrying them all up in one go. As she started her descent for the second load, gripping the filthy rope handrail that still bore the sweat of the condemned, she wondered, as she often did, how many of them had kept their heads.

She put away the shopping, and started to wash the breakfast dishes, remembering the argument with her husband that morning. After losing Milo, instead of clinging to each other cheek-to-cheek as they had throughout their marriage, the couple had found themselves swimming in opposite directions as they battled to survive. When one needed to talk about the tragedy, the other wanted to experience the fleeting seconds of tranquillity they had found. They eventually ended up collapsed on distant shores, marooned by their grief, and aiming their anger over losing him at each other.

As she scrubbed, she looked up at the picture on the wall in front of her depicting the Salt Tower in wobbly pencil strokes, coloured in with felt tip. Great care had been taken, but not always achieved, to keep within the lines. Next to the Tower stood three smiling figures, two tall, one short. Only the artist’s parents had recognised the small object next to them, which was also smiling, as that of the oldest tortoise in the world. And she peered, with mounting distress, at the colours that had started to fade.

Suddenly she heard the thud of the Salt Tower door. Not long afterwards, her husband appeared in the kitchen and silently presented her with a warm, flat cardboard box. Hebe Jones, unable to admit that she still detested pizza, set the table, and forced down the white flag in small mouthfuls that threatened to choke her. And for the rest of the evening the air in the Salt Tower was so fragile that they spoke to each other as if the place were filled with a million fluttering butterflies that neither dared disturb.

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Hebe Jones unbuttoned her coat next to the drawer containing one hundred and fifty-seven pairs of false teeth. It was a ritual she performed every morning upon arrival at London Underground’s Lost Property Office, even during the summer, a season she vehemently distrusted in England. She hung it on the stand next to the life-size inflatable doll, a deep red hole for a mouth, which no one had yet dared to claim. Turning the corner, she stood at the original Victorian counter, its shutter still closed, and studied one of the ledgers to remind her what had been brought in the previous day. As well as the usual several dozen umbrellas and best-selling novels, some with a bookmark tragically near the end, the yield included one lawnmower, a Russian typewriter and sixteen jars of preserved ginger. The last item brought in was yet another abandoned wheelchair, increasing the office’s hoard to the spectacular figure of thirty-nine. It was proof, if only to the staff, that London Underground could perform miracles.

She switched on the kettle on top of the safe that no one had been able to open since its discovery on the Circle Line five years ago. Opening the fridge, currently the subject of a standoff about whose turn it was to clean, she took out a carton of milk and raised it to her nose. Satisfied that the boisterous odour came from something no longer recognisable on the lower shelf, she poured some into a teacup. As she waited for the water to boil, the woman who felt the weight of loss more acutely than most gazed with regret at the graveyard of forgotten belongings on metal shelves stretching far into the distance, covered in a shroud of dust.

Passing the long, black magician’s box used to imprison glamorous assistants while sawing them in half, she took her tea to her desk. It was scattered with a number of recent items whose owners she was still trying to trace: a stuffed humming bird in a little glass dome; a false eye; a pair of tiny pointed Chinese slippers with lotus leaf embroidery; a gigolo’s diary which she hoped wouldn’t be claimed before she had finished reading it; and a small box purporting to contain a testicle belonging to an A. Hitler found in the Albert Hall. Standing on a shelf above the desk was a line of faded thank-you cards kept as proof of the more consider ate side of human nature, one that was easily forgotten when dealing with the general public.

Opening a drawer, she pulled out her notebook, hoping that the deeply satisfying task of reuniting a possession with its absent-minded owner would take her mind off her troubles. She read the notes she had made during her search for the manufacturer of the false eye, but her thoughts kept finding their way back to her husband.

She smelt the arrival of her colleague before seeing her. The still-warm bacon sandwich in greaseproof paper tossed on to the neighbouring desk knocked over an Oscar statuette, which had been waiting for collection for two years, eight months and twenty-seven days. Despite the fact that Hebe Jones had repeatedly told her that it was a fake, borne out by all the letters sent to the actor’s agent remaining unanswered, Valerie Jennings was of the utter conviction that one day Dustin Hoffman would arrive in person to reclaim it.

Years of frustration, made bearable by the odd spectacu lar triumph, had bonded the two women like prisoners sharing the same cell. While they rejoiced in one another’s successes as keenly as their own, they were equally susceptible to feeling the dead weight of the other’s failures. It was a job of highs and lows. As a result, neither woman could bear the shafts of boredom that would eventually shine their way into the working day, often with the handing in of the morning’s thirty-ninth set of door keys. It was then that they would long for the arrival of something either exotic, edible, or, if luck would have it, both. And while during particularly intense periods of stress Hebe Jones was able to escape to the sanctuary of the magician’s box, where she would remain entombed with her eyes closed, Valerie Jennings, whose marvellous girth thwarted such pleasure, resorted to trying on the contents of an abandoned box-set of theatrical beards and moustaches, and admiring the many splendid permutations in the mirror.

The two women, who irritated each other as much as siblings, but who loved each other just as fiercely, ruled London Underground’s Lost Property Office with a queenly air that only slipped to that of the filthiest of brothels during moments of intense frustration. Their honesty was utmost. Everything that was handed in by Underground staff, or kindly members of the public, was written down with the penmanship of a monk in perfectly ordered ledgers. The only items the women claimed as their own were perishables, which they were forbidden from storing for more than twenty-four hours, though they made a secret extension for inscribed birthday cakes, which unsettled their hearts more than their taste buds.

The women greeted each other with the casual indifference earned from having spent over a decade at each other’s side. As Hebe Jones raised the counter’s metal shutter, which emitted a gruesome wail, Valerie Jennings inspected the Oscar statuette for damage, then stood it back on its feet. Just as she was about to pick up her sandwich, instinct told her that something was not as it should be, and she peeled back the top slice of white bread. Her suspicions confirmed, she cursed the owner of the greasy spoon for omitting the tomato ketchup. And, with the commendable hope she always bore when faced with adversity, she enquired whether any ketchup had been handed in.

The Swiss cowbell rang before Hebe Jones had a chance to reply. She got up from her seat to allow Valerie Jennings the dignity of an uninterrupted breakfast. On her way to the counter she tried to open the safe, as was the office custom. But despite yet another combination of numbers, the grey steel door remained tightly shut.

Samuel Crapper, the Lost Property Office’s most frequent customer, was standing at the counter dressed in a brown corduroy suit and striped blue shirt, concern threaded across his forehead. A distant descendant of the famous plumber with a glut of Royal Warrants, his family had given him the best private education money could buy. But they paid an even higher price than they had thought. The cruel words in the playground made his cheeks flare, which invariably led to the loud declaration by his tormentors that he was ‘flushed with pride’. Despite his protestations that it was an urban myth that Thomas Crapper invented the flush lavatory, and it was in fact Queen Elizabeth I’s godson, Sir John Harington, they would lie in wait, striking at any opportunity to force his head down the pan. The trauma of the bullying affected his memory, and he tried to compensate for it by purchasing two of everything. However, he failed to realise that if something went missing it didn’t prevent its double from going the same way.

On seeing Hebe Jones approach, his agitation mounted as he realised he couldn’t remember what he had lost. Staring at the floor, he ran his fingers through his ochre-coloured hair, which had never regained its ability to lie flat since the brutal years of being constantly flushed. A smile suddenly appeared as he recalled the object, but it swiftly slid away again when he remembered that it was no longer in his possession.

‘Has a tomato plant been handed in, by any chance?’ he enquired. It was no ordinary specimen, he went on to explain, as it was descended from one of the first such plants ever to have been grown in England, courtesy of the barber-surgeon John Gerard in the 1590s. After several years of infiltration, he had managed to procure the seed from a contact in the tomato world. Such was the magnificence of its fruit, he had decided to enter it into a show. ‘Unfortunately, I left it on the Piccadilly Line yesterday on my way there,’ he confessed. ‘I’d forgotten that the show actually takes place this afternoon.’

‘Just a minute,’ replied Hebe Jones, disappearing from view. She returned within minutes, carrying the plant in front of her, and slid it silently on to the counter with the words ‘Don’t worry about the retrieval fee.’ Skipping her usual chat, she said goodbye and disappeared again with unusual determination. And Samuel Crapper walked joyfully away, clutching the plant to his corduroy jacket, having completely failed to notice the four missing tomatoes that Hebe Jones and Valerie Jennings had enjoyed in toasted cheese sandwiches the previous day.

When Hebe Jones returned to her desk, her colleague was looking inside the fridge in readiness for elevenses, despite the fact that there was some time to go before the sacred hour. During those magical fifteen minutes, the shutter was closed, phones remained unanswered, and the two women would serve themselves Lady Grey tea in bone china cups, yet to be claimed, along with whatever cake, tarts or biscuits Valerie Jennings had brought in.

Her appreciation of the fine work of Messrs Kipling and McVitie developed after she returned home from the office one day intending to suggest to her husband that it was time that they start a family. But instead of the night of reckless passion she had been hoping for, her husband turned from his newspaper and told her with the frigidity of a lawyer that he was leaving her. He explained that the marriage had been a mistake, and insisted that no one else was involved. Valerie Jennings was so distraught at the revelation of his lack of affection, she let him handle the divorce. Several months after the decree absolute came through, she heard he had got married barefoot on a Caribbean island, and she threw out the travel brochure she discovered in the drawer of his bedside table. Only then did she take down their wedding photograph from the mantelpiece, and put it in the attic along with the album, both almost too painful to touch.

When, several minutes later, the Swiss cowbell rang again, Hebe Jones got to her feet. Standing at the counter was Arthur Catnip, a London Underground ticket inspector of limited height, whose waistline had been softened by a weakness for fried breakfasts. Over the years he had learnt to detect a fare dodger at a hundred paces. He put his talent down to the same intuition that had warned him he was going to have a massive heart attack fifteen days before the colossal mis adventure took place. After taking annual leave, he attempted to check himself into the nearest hospital in readiness for the disaster. But the tattooed ticket inspector was detained against his wishes in the psychiatric wing. His prophetic warnings were noted down by a squeakily bald doctor thrilled at the thought that he had discovered a whole new subset of insanity. When the medical emergency eventually took place, the only reason Arthur Catnip survived the massive onslaught was because during the height of his suffering a flood of boiling vindication coursed up his body from his toes, pushing through his blocked artery with the thrust of a stallion. As the scent of self-righteousness filled the wing, two patients more sane than their keepers decided that this was their moment, and escaped with their suitcases after a combined stay of forty-nine years.

Over the years, Arthur Catnip had received numerous cups of tea from the ladies for his willingness to hand in everything he found. A number of his colleagues, exhausted by the amount of forgotten belongings choking the network, left the least suspicious items where they were in the hope that they would be stolen. Arthur Catnip, however, took everything that he found immediately to the Lost Property Office. Not only were the two ladies the only people in the entire workforce who ever thanked him for his efforts to make London Underground a bastion of British glory, but the thought of visiting the antiquated department in Baker Street made the former seaman’s innards roll as if he were back on one of his ships. Several months ago, he had caught Valerie Jennings in one of her theatrical beards, a sight which had thrilled him beyond measure. The vision instantly reminded him of the wondrous bearded ladies he had seen on his voyages around the Pacific, who had once been guarded by spear-waving elders against circus owners with voluminous nets. The women’s undoubted charms had earned them the highest regard in their village, where they were worshipped as deities and presented with the biggest turtle eggs. They used the golden yolks to gloss their beards, and the whites to oil the succulent flesh that covered their bodies in tantalising handfuls.

Arthur Catnip had vowed not to trust women again when his eleven-year marriage collapsed on the chance discovery that his wife was having an affair with his Rear Admiral. He left the Navy before he could be discharged for breaking the man’s jaw, and, not wanting to see the light of day, applied for a job with London Underground. But the spectacular vision of Valerie Jennings produced in him such yearning that from then on he always arrived at work doused in eau de toilette. Having never seen her crowned with such lustrous facial hair again, he eventually convinced himself that the wondrousness had been an illusion, and he was left with a ghost of the vision that haunted him during his working day as he rattled through the Victorian tunnels seeking out fare-evaders.

The ticket inspector, whose hands had never recovered their smoothness after years of rope-pulling, placed on the counter a camellia, a pair of handcuffs, sixteen umbrellas, thirteen mobile phones and five odd socks. He waited in silence, one elbow on the counter, as Hebe Jones noted down the items in a number of ledgers with inscrutable coded cross references. Just as she closed the final volume, and returned it to its place, Arthur Catnip picked up a modest blue holdall from the floor next to his feet and placed it on the counter with the words: ‘Almost forgot this.’

Hebe Jones, her curiosity as potent as the first day she started the job, unzipped the bag and stood on her toes to peer inside. Still uncertain of its contents, she reached in a hand and retrieved a plastic lunch box containing the crusts of a fish paste sandwich. Feeling something else inside, she drew out a wooden box with a brass plaque inscribed with the words ‘Clementine Perkins, 1939 to 2008, RIP’. And neither of them spoke as they stared in horror at the urn of ashes before them.

After Arthur Catnip had left, wondering out loud how someone could mislay human remains, Hebe Jones noted it down in the ledgers. But her hand shook to such an extent that her penmanship no longer resembled that of a monk. She carried the item back to her desk, and put it on top of the gigolo’s diary without a word. But her mind was no longer on the wooden box in front of her with the brass nameplate. Instead, with the twist of a knife, it had turned to the small urn that stood in the back of the Salt Tower’s wardrobe.

When Hebe Jones had received the call from the undertakers to say that Milo’s remains were ready for collection, she instantly dropped the vase of flowers that had just arrived from Rev. Septimus Drew. Once Balthazar Jones had swept up the glass from the living-room carpet, he fetched the car keys from the hook on the wall, and they made the journey in brittle silence. Balthazar Jones didn’t put on Phil Collins’ ‘In the Air Tonight’ so he could play the air drums to the music while they waited in traffic, and nor was there anyone on the back seat joining in with his father at the best bit. The couple only spoke when they arrived, but neither of them could say the purpose of their visit, and all they offered were their names. The receptionist continued to look at them expectantly, and it wasn’t until the funeral director came out that the awkwardness ended. But it started again as soon as he presented them with the urn, as neither of them could bear to take it.

On their return to the Salt Tower, the heady fumes of white lilies flooding the spiral staircase hit them. Hebe Jones, who had clutched the urn while sitting in the passenger seat in a private state of agony, placed it on the coffee table next to Milo’s kazoo on her way to the kitchen to make three cups of tea. The couple sat on the sofa in suffocating silence, the third cup abandoned on the tray, neither of them able to look at the thing on the table that induced in them both a secret wish to die. Several days later, Hebe Jones noticed that her husband had placed it on top of the ancient mantelpiece. The following week, unable to bear seeing it any longer, she put it in the wardrobe until they had decided upon Milo’s final resting place. But each time one of them brought up the subject, the other, suddenly caught off guard, had felt too bruised to reply. So it remained at the back of the shelf behind Hebe Jones’s jumpers. And every night, before turning off her bedside light, the mother would find an excuse to open the wardrobe doors and silently wish her child goodnight, unable to abandon the ritual she had performed for eleven years.

4 (#ulink_4c7b0321-01cf-5bf8-87f0-7c606430cdb2)

For what he considered to be very good reasons, Balthazar Jones decided not to tell his wife about the visit from the equerry with the splendid umbrella. When, several days later, at the demonic hour of 3.13 a.m., Hebe Jones sat bolt upright in bed and asked: ‘So what did the man from the Palace want?’, the Beefeater muttered with the colourful breath of a man still embedded in his dreams that it was something to do with the drains. He instantly regretted his reply. Hebe Jones remained in the same erect position for the following eleven minutes as she pointed out that while their lavatory may very well be connected to an historic garderobe, the monstrous smell of petrified effluent left by centuries of prisoners that hung like a fog in their home whenever the drains blocked was not protected by any royal decree.

The Beefeater had considered Oswin Fielding’s proposal to be utter lunacy. Once the tourists had been locked out of the fortress for the day, he spent the rest of his afternoons collapsed on his blue-and-white striped deckchair on the battlements engulfed in the creeping darkness, hoping that royal enthusiasm for the menagerie would wane. While he didn’t suffer from his wife’s natural horror of them, animals offered little in the way of interest for him. The one exception was Mrs Cook, whom generations of Joneses had completely forgotten was a tortoise. She was regarded more as a loose-bowelled geriatric relative with a propensity for absconding: such a protracted habit that nobody realised she had vanished until weeks later as her sedate trajectory across the room was forever burnt on their memories.

It was only after being summoned to the office in the Byward Tower that the Beefeater realised that being in charge of the Queen’s beasts might in fact be to his benefit. He pushed open the office’s studded door to see the Chief Yeoman Warder sitting behind his desk within the cold, circular walls, his fingers, as pale as an embalmer’s, laced over his stomach. He looked at his watch with irritation, and then gestured to a seat. Balthazar Jones sat down, placed his dark blue hat on his lap, and held on to its brim with both hands.

‘I’ll get straight to the point, Yeoman Warder Jones,’ the man said, his grey beard clipped with the precision of topiary. ‘Guarding the Tower and capturing the professional pickpockets are very much part of the job for which thousands of retired British servicemen would give their back teeth, if they still had any, to be selected.’

He leant forward and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘You were one of our best when you first arrived,’ he continued. ‘I remember the time you rugby-tackled that chap on Tower Green. He had five wallets on him at the time, if I recall correctly. I know things haven’t been easy, what with that dreadful business with the little chap. But time has moved on. We can’t afford to have a weak link. Let’s not forget the Peasants’ Revolt when all those hoodlums stormed the place.’

‘That was back in 1381, sir.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Yeoman Warder Jones. But the point is that the Tower is not infallible. We must be alert at all times, not gazing around the place enjoying the view.’

The Beefeater looked through the arrow slit behind the Chief Yeoman Warder’s head as he remembered the last time he had been called into the office. On that occasion, the man had bothered to get to his feet when he came in, and immediately offered him his condolences. ‘I know exactly how you feel,’ he had insisted. ‘When we lost Sally we were just devastated. She had such an extraordinary character. One of the most intelligent dogs we’ve ever had. She’d been with us for nine years. How old was the little chap again?’