Read Online The Tower, The Zoo, and The Tortoise by Julia Stuart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Stuart
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FIVE
H EBE JONES IGNORED THE URN sitting on her desk as she had done every day since its arrival, and picked up the false eye. As she held it up to her own, the two pupils looked at one another for several seconds. Eventually stared out, she admired the artistry of the tiny brushstrokes on the hazel iris. Her curiosity sated, she picked up the phone, hoping to finally reunite the item with its Danish owner.
It hadn’t taken her as long as she had feared to find a number for him. The breakthrough had come when she spotted the manufacturer’s name and a serial number on the back of the prosthesis. Due to the mouse-like dimensions of the print, she had needed to borrow Valerie Jennings’s glasses in order to decipher it, a habit that had become a particular source of irritation. The request evoked a sigh of despair that stirred the worms in the earth below, but which Hebe Jones never heard. Valerie Jennings disappeared into a labyrinth of petrifying smears as she waited for their return and suggested once again that Hebe Jones have her eyes tested. “Everyone’s sight gets worse as they get older,” she said.
“The old hen is worth forty chickens,” Hebe Jones replied, when she finally handed over the spectacles.
After dialling the owner’s number in Århus, given to her by the receptionist at the eye manufacturer’s, Hebe Jones doodled on her pad as she waited.
“Hallo,” came the eventual reply.
“Hallo,” Hebe Jones repeated cautiously. “Frederik Kjeldsen?”
“
Ja!
”
“This is Mrs. Jones from London Underground Lost Property Office. I believe we may have something that belongs to you.”
There was a moment of pure silence, after which Frederik Kjeldsen began to weep with his good eye. When the damp sound eventually came to an end, the man apologised and began to explain what had happened.
“Two years ago I lost my eye in a road accident and spent seven weeks in hospital,” he said. “I was too scared to drive again and had to give up my job as a teacher. I was so depressed, I didn’t bother getting a … what do you call them?”
“A prosthesis?”
“Ja
, a prosthesis. It wasn’t until my sister announced her wedding that I decided to get one to save her the humiliation of my solitary eye in the wedding photographs. I made the decision that, once the celebrations were over, I would take my own life.”
There was a pause during which the two strangers held on to each other through the silence.
“I had to take two buses to reach the manufacturer’s,” he continued. “But the moment the eye-maker lifted her head from her instruments and spoke to me with the voice of an angel, I fell for her. After eight months, and what I have to admit were many unnecessary appointments, I proposed to her under the same fir tree where my father had proposed to my mother. Our wedding emptied the florists for miles. I was so happy I cannot tell you.”
After swallowing loudly, Frederik Kjeldsen continued: “Ten days ago, I was travelling back to the airport after a weekend in London to see my niece when the Tube suddenly stopped. I banged my head against the glass and my eye flew out. There were so many feet and suitcases in the carriage I wasn’t able to find it before arriving at Heathrow. If I had stayed looking for it any longer, the train would have taken me back to London and I would have missed my flight. I needed to get back in time for work the next day, and I had such a headache you wouldn’t believe, so I put on my sunglasses and got off. Of course my wife has made me another eye, but I so wanted the one that had brought us together. And now it seems that you have found it. It is truly a miracle.”
After Frederik Kjeldsen apologised again for his salty state, Hebe Jones assured him that she would get it into the post immediately. As she put down the phone, Valerie Jennings approached and peered at the eye over her colleague’s shoulder, scratching her nest of dark curls, clipped to
H EBE JONES IGNORED THE URN sitting on her desk as she had done every day since its arrival, and picked up the false eye. As she held it up to her own, the two pupils looked at one another for several seconds. Eventually stared out, she admired the artistry of the tiny brushstrokes on the hazel iris. Her curiosity sated, she picked up the phone, hoping to finally reunite the item with its Danish owner.
It hadn’t taken her as long as she had feared to find a number for him. The breakthrough had come when she spotted the manufacturer’s name and a serial number on the back of the prosthesis. Due to the mouse-like dimensions of the print, she had needed to borrow Valerie Jennings’s glasses in order to decipher it, a habit that had become a particular source of irritation. The request evoked a sigh of despair that stirred the worms in the earth below, but which Hebe Jones never heard. Valerie Jennings disappeared into a labyrinth of petrifying smears as she waited for their return and suggested once again that Hebe Jones have her eyes tested. “Everyone’s sight gets worse as they get older,” she said.
“The old hen is worth forty chickens,” Hebe Jones replied, when she finally handed over the spectacles.
After dialling the owner’s number in Århus, given to her by the receptionist at the eye manufacturer’s, Hebe Jones doodled on her pad as she waited.
“Hallo,” came the eventual reply.
“Hallo,” Hebe Jones repeated cautiously. “Frederik Kjeldsen?”
“
Ja!
”
“This is Mrs. Jones from London Underground Lost Property Office. I believe we may have something that belongs to you.”
There was a moment of pure silence, after which Frederik Kjeldsen began to weep with his good eye. When the damp sound eventually came to an end, the man apologised and began to explain what had happened.
“Two years ago I lost my eye in a road accident and spent seven weeks in hospital,” he said. “I was too scared to drive again and had to give up my job as a teacher. I was so depressed, I didn’t bother getting a … what do you call them?”
“A prosthesis?”
“Ja
, a prosthesis. It wasn’t until my sister announced her wedding that I decided to get one to save her the humiliation of my solitary eye in the wedding photographs. I made the decision that, once the celebrations were over, I would take my own life.”
There was a pause during which the two strangers held on to each other through the silence.
“I had to take two buses to reach the manufacturer’s,” he continued. “But the moment the eye-maker lifted her head from her instruments and spoke to me with the voice of an angel, I fell for her. After eight months, and what I have to admit were many unnecessary appointments, I proposed to her under the same fir tree where my father had proposed to my mother. Our wedding emptied the florists for miles. I was so happy I cannot tell you.”
After swallowing loudly, Frederik Kjeldsen continued: “Ten days ago, I was travelling back to the airport after a weekend in London to see my niece when the Tube suddenly stopped. I banged my head against the glass and my eye flew out. There were so many feet and suitcases in the carriage I wasn’t able to find it before arriving at Heathrow. If I had stayed looking for it any longer, the train would have taken me back to London and I would have missed my flight. I needed to get back in time for work the next day, and I had such a headache you wouldn’t believe, so I put on my sunglasses and got off. Of course my wife has made me another eye, but I so wanted the one that had brought us together. And now it seems that you have found it. It is truly a miracle.”
After Frederik Kjeldsen apologised again for his salty state, Hebe Jones assured him that she would get it into the post immediately. As she put down the phone, Valerie Jennings approached and peered at the eye over her colleague’s shoulder, scratching her nest of dark curls, clipped to
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