Read The Tower, The Zoo, and The Tortoise for Free Online Page A

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 absolute. Everything that was handed in by Underground staff, or kindly membersof 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 blue-striped shirt, concern threaded across his forehead. A distant descendant of the famous plumber with a glut of Royal Warrants, he had received from his family the best private education money could buy. But they paid an evenhigher price than they had thought. The cruel words in the playground made his cheeks flare, which 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.
    Tall and thin as smoke, Samuel Crapper felt his agitation mount on seeing Hebe Jones approach as he realised he couldn’t remember what he had lost. He stared at the floor, running 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, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. 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,