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carrying the plant in front of her, and slid it silently onto 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. 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 or tarts Valerie Jennings had brought in.
    Her considerable appetite 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 shethrew 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 misadventure 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 thenumber 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.