latter days of Mr Jones, The

Spectator, The, Dec 13-Dec 20, 2003 by Gardam, Jane

The people in the houses were very different too. There were no servants living in except for nannies who had apartments on top floors, and smart cars to take the children to school. Husbands were not much in evidence except when out jogging early and late - in their ski-suits. They were called 'partners'. The women, Mr Jones thought, looked rather like rats. Anxious rats with frightening jobs in the City. Or in several cities - and in what seemed to Mr Jones their middle age appeared in couture maternity clothes that emphasised their condition so grossly that he had to look away. Huge, set-piece firework parties took place in the road now at Guy Fawkes and Christmas and at Hallowe'en and Thanksgiving, for the road was now international, and the facades were covered in webs of fairy-lights. His neighbours told him they could get him more than two million for his house, but he didn't seem to understand.

He managed very well, still under the discipline of his long-dead mother. A firm cleaned for him and did the garden, and another firm his laundry. The Jones money seemed to be holding out, managed by a London solicitor (at a price), and the church next door, 'My church' he called it, helped with shopping, ran in with cakes and marmalade, looked after him when he was ill - which was almost never - and saw to his flu jabs. When he had been a sidesman for 50 years the church bought him a television and video recorder, which he ignored. When a neighbour asked what would become of the house when he - when he could not longer look after himself - Mr Jones said that it was left to the church, which planned to expand. They wanted to do something for the Homeless.

The neighbours became less certain of the charm of Mr Jones after that and less certain still when their children joined the infant school on the Common and they discovered that Mr Jones sat watching them every afternoon.

One morning Mr Jones stood at his bathroom window, drying himself on a hard towel, and saw a policeman standing in his back garden.

Very odd.

He dressed and walked downstairs to the kitchen where he set the kettle on the stove, and the policeman was looking at him through the half-glazed kitchen door.

'Hello?' said Mr Jones, opening it.

'Good morning, sir. I came round the back. Didn't want to draw attention. Left the car on the corner by the church.'

'Come in. Would you like some tea?'

'No tea, thank you, sir.' The policeman looked into the distance, rather ill at ease.

'Is something the matter?'

'There have been complaints, sir.'

'About me? My accountant says we can have the house repainted next year.'

'No, sir.'

'I agree. It's a disgrace. I can't think what my mother -'

'It's about the children on the Common, sir. It's said you go there every day.'

'Yes. Yes, I do. For many years, I am proud to say, in all weathers.'

'Just to look at the children, sir?'

'Oh yes. I have always been with children on the Common. I was the little one, you see. The youngest. All the rest of us arc dead now.'

'You are very fond of children, sir?'