In Search of the Blue Tiger (16 page)

An old image flits to mind. It is of his own Father pushing him out into the street, to stand alone and fight his own battles, to rely on no one and nothing but himself. To take the beating awaiting him.

The boy shifts on the bed and the Father moves away and out of sight, his back pressed to the wall. He so wants to find a way to talk to his son, but no words have ever come to his aid. Maybe when they both are men.

A tigress without dependent cubs can have babies every fifteen to twenty-five days. When the time is right the tiger and tigress spend about five days together. A new mate will kill any small cubs and push larger ones away so he can make the tigress ready to mate. This is so he can spread his own genes. If there are not enough territories, men tigers cannot spread out. They end up fighting over tigresses and killing each other and even get forced to have babies with their own sisters and daughters. If they inbreed, genes that save them from bad diseases are lost.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, my scrapbook opened up in front of me. All my coloured pencils are arranged in a line, from the yellowest on the right to the bluest on the left. I have just finished colouring in the map showing the whereabouts of were-tigers, which I copied from the book in the library. I'm halfway through the labelling of all the key places: Kelantan, where the Orang Asli live, whose shamans inhabit tiger bodies; Khao Yai, where tigers like to make eye contact with humans …

My concentration is broken by the ring of the doorbell. Stigir's ears spring alert. Not often does the doorbell ring unexpectedly around here. Early on this morning I'd heard some shouts, a crashing of a vase or mirror, tears and doors slamming. All has been quiet for some time, so I assume I'm the only one likely to go to the door. The bell rings again. No one else stirs. If the Mother or Great Aunt were about they'd look surprised and ask each other if anyone is expected.

I go to answer it. Stigir jumps up and follows me along the corridor to check out the excitement. The low wintry sun rushes in as the door opens, silhouetting the two figures on the porch. I squint, recognising Mrs Fishcutter and one of the Twins.

‘Good morning,' says Mrs Fishcutter. ‘Are your parents in?'

‘Er … no … not really,' I say, clamping Stigir between my knees as he pushes forward for a better view of events.

The two on the doorstep look at each other. Both hold small black bags and are dressed in their Sunday best, freshly scrubbed and groomed.

‘Stepmother,' says the twin confidently, ‘let me speak to the boy.'

‘Yes, of course, dear,' says the stepmother.

Perch, or is it Carp, opens up her bag and pulls out a small, plain, sky-blue book.

‘Today,' she begins, showing me a cartoon picture, ‘we are asking you and your neighbours whether you would like to outlive this giant turtle?'

She says all this as if she has never met me before, as if she is performing a part, reciting lines.

Is this the play for the school competition?

She shows me the open page of the book, pointing to the picture. Her fingernail is chewed and bitten to the quick.

‘This turtle can live to be a hundred years old,' she proclaims. ‘When Jesus returns, you can live for a thousand years in Jehovah's new kingdom.'

‘Can I be a tiger?' I ask.

They both look at me with broad smiles. Where is the other twin? I wonder. I have never seen Perch without Carp, or Carp without Perch.

‘Who is it?' comes a voice from inside the house. ‘Who's at the door?'

I turn to see Mother in the hallway.

‘It's all right, Mrs Flowers,' says Mrs Fishcutter, popping her head to one side of the Twin in order to be seen. ‘It's only us. We are calling this morning, on you and your neighbours, to spread the good news of Jehovah's promises.'

I sense Mother tensing up.

‘Thank you, but we have our own beliefs. Good day to you,' she says, bustling past me and pushing the door closed.

As the door slams she swivels around, grabbing me by both shoulders.

‘Never, ever, open the door to those people again,' she says.

I think she means never open the door of our strange world to anyone. Her eyes are wild and her face flushed. There is more to this than unexpected visitors. Through the glass panel of the front door I can see Perch or Carp: they are so alike when apart. Stigir yelps, frightened by the commotion. The shadowy figure recedes.

Log date: 4

Lifeboats from the
Cutty Sark
come to the door to warn us of storms. The Mother says she does her own meteorological forecasting. The Lonesome Rover gets blamed for good or bad weather.

Gazing out through the bay window, I see the Mother sitting on the bench by the greenhouse. It has been raining all morning, but has eased up a little. She looks lonely, her shoulders hunched over, an old raincoat pulled tightly around her. Stigir is beside me, looking out to the garden, his ears pricked in anticipation of some fresh air and a run around.

‘Come on then,' I say, and we leap down the scullery steps and out through the back door. When we get closer, Mother looks up as if she's been lifted from a strange dream. She has a cream scarf wrapped around her head, from her jaw to her crown. It is tied in a knot at the top, with two bunny ears hanging down.

‘I've got a terrible toothache,' she says, bringing her hands to her mouth. Her bunny ears flop forward.

‘You look sad?' I say, not sure why.

‘Why do you say sad? I'm sore not sad. I'm in pain and your father has gone away again and left me with a hole in the roof and damp creeping all over this God-forsaken house. And, on top of it all, this toothache will drive me mad.'

‘Can toothaches make you do mad things?'

‘What do you mean?' she says, her tongue pushing out her cheek, searching for the pain.

I think for a second and then ask the question that's been nestling at the back of my mind.

‘Well, didn't the doctors take Grandmother's teeth out to stop her from singing so much and dancing in the garden? I thought it was to make room for all the milk in her mouth, but maybe she wouldn't want to do mad things if she had no teeth.'

‘Who told you about all that?' she says, shocked, the bunny ears flapping around her face.

‘Great Aunt Margaret,' I answer, without a second's hesitation, long schooled in this house of lies. The Mother scowls, so I carry on to cover my tracks. ‘But I don't think just singing and dancing is being mad. I'm reading a book about a woman who was mad and who was kept in an attic, so no one would see her. But I don't think she was mad either. I think she was just different. And that's why she set fire to the house, because no one would listen. Just like Miss Haversham and the dusty cake and the wedding dress and that long dark room. Maybe Grandma just wanted to dance, but no one would let her.'

The Mother sighs, the intake of air igniting the pain that shoots from her jaw to her brain and back again like an electric shock. She looks at her boy, standing in the dripping rain in his short trousers and over-sized jumper, socks around his ankles and his old school sandals scuffed and worn. His little dog pants beside him, staring up at his young master in adoration.

She sees her own mother in the eyes of her son, in the way he looks up at the sky to watch a single raindrop fall from way above, getting bigger and bigger and then dropping onto his tongue. And she recalls, from far distant days, sitting on this same bench, her mother reading to her from one of her father's books. She remembers the sound of her mother's voice reciting lines, telling her that ‘there is a special place reserved in Hell for those who purposefully live their lives in sadness.' Those words have sat in her mind ever since. She rubs her jaw to calm the ache. But the tears forming in the corner of her eyes are because she thinks that special place is here and now and has always been waiting for her.

‘Don't cry, Mother,' she hears from the voice of her son.

‘It's the pain, Oscar, from my teeth.'

The following day in the school playground I sit on an empty bench. There's a lolly-stick in my hand and some fresh soft tar under the bench to keep me happy. I'm bending double, digging away at the soft goo, when I sense a presence. I look up. There in front of me are the Twins. They are dressed in matching grey smock-dresses and pale blue polo-neck jumpers.

Perch, who is on the right, speaks first.

‘Little boy, we have decided to give you a second chance to enter Jehovah's Kingdom.'

‘To witness to you again,' adds Carp, who is on the left.

‘To prove yourself worthy to act in our play,' says Perch.

The playground is alive with children, shouting and running in all directions, but the Twins stand like statues, oblivious to all the commotion. I stare back at them, unsure that a response is needed.

‘We will begin our Bible study on Monday,' commands Perch.

‘Here, on this bench. After lunch,' adds Carp.

Then they walk away, leaving me to wait for the whistle and the call to the classroom.