In Search of the Blue Tiger

by Robert Power

  All in all, they were contented with their lives. The long hours in the fishmonger shop, the cold mornings down by the quayside waiting for the trawlers to come in, the quirkiness of the Twins and the frostiness of the Butcherhooks, the Hoopshapers, the Fruitpickers and other families of the town. All was held in sway and balance by simplicity and certainty, quiet nights around the fire and the sound of the waves counting out time.

  But all this would change when, two years into their marriage, old Mr Ledger died and Mr Fishcutter decided to balance his own credits and debits and to keep his own books. Who was to know that as he headed towards the library with A for Accounts in his mind, he would return full of A for April and L for Lust lurking close behind?

  Tiger Fact

  There are lots of stories of were-tigers in Malaysia. In one village people noticed a traveller who became ill and was vomiting chicken feathers. The villagers were not surprised by this. During the previous night a tiger had entered the village, killing and eating many chickens. Men were often caught in tiger traps when only tiger pawprints were seen on the ground. Malays believe whole villages exist deep in the jungle with tigers living in communities like humans. The walls of their houses are made from human skin and the roofs from human hair. The Korinchi people of the Malay Sumatra peninsular also lived in tiger villages, turning themselves into tigers at dusk and then back into men and women just as the dawn rose. Amongst the Jempul people are families related to tigers. These people always turn into tigers when they die. This is why tigers come close by the houses of the Jempul at times of illness, in order to protect their livestock and paddy-fields.

  *NB: The Father is often sick by the rain-barrel after he’s been on a session at the pub. Check for signs of chicken (or other) feathers.

  In Western Sumatra, the Kerinci people were afraid to visit the remote district of Chenaku, a region abundant in were-tigers. In Gunung Angsi, in the peninsular Malaysian state of Negri Semblian, a were-tiger village was ruled by a tiger called Dato Paroi. In their human form these were-tigers studied, were farmers and were even observed reading the Koran.

  *NB: Keep a careful eye on anyone in the library reading religious books.

  Dilip has gotten into the habit of following me around the playground at school. Every Wednesday I walk with him and his grandmother back to his house. His grandmother always offers me her hand and I always look away. I’d like to hold her hand, to feel its softness, but over the weeks I’ve always refused and now I don’t know how to change. In Dilip’s room we sit on his bed, flicking through books until Mother comes to collect me. His grandmother always brings us a bowl of strange salty nuts and two glasses of water. Dilip and me barely speak. He laughs and giggles and I smile back at him.

  It’s much the same in the playground at school. We walk around a bit, kick tennis balls back to other groups of boys, jump through girl’s skipping ropes. Then we sit down on the old bench by the litter-bins and watch the playtime run its course. Nothing seems odd about it, but then school is strange like that. So we are sitting on the bench this morning. Dilip is watching me watching some girls playing patter-cake. To one side, set apart from the group of girls, are the Fishcutter Twins. They stand silently, looking in our direction. I don’t think Dilip has noticed them. I’m never sure how far he sees through his magnifying glasses. They are walking towards us, Perch on the right, Carp on the left. I nudge Dilip. He looks up at me, as if I’ve just woken him from a deep sleep.

  The Twins tower above us. As always their presence is unnerving. They stare at us, but never quite look in our eyes.

  ‘We’ve noticed you two,’ says Carp.

  ‘Always on this bench, together,’ says Perch.

  ‘But we only need you for our play,’ says Carp, her voice projected in my direction, ‘not the other one.’

  Dilip looks at me and smiles. This time I don’t smile back.

  It is always Mr Fishcutter’s responsibility to say a prayer at meal-times. As the only man and head of the house it is his duty as ordained by Jehovah’s word. It is the one time he feels the family are truly together, truly united.

  ‘Jehovah God, thank you for the food before us. Thank you for the sea that provided these fish, where they grew and flourished, before you allowed us to harvest them for our meal. Thank you for all the animals in the fields and the birds in the sky and for giving us all these bounties to keep us well. We pray that we will stay healthy in body, mind and spirit to further do your will. Through Jesus Christ, your son, our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ repeat Perch and Carp and Mrs Fishcutter in unison: the only time they all speak as one.

  Each turns to the plate on the table before them. A filleted trout, five boiled potatoes and three carrots, topped and tailed.

  ‘Lovely,’ says Mr Fishcutter, ever eager to ease the silence.

  ‘So how was school today?’ he asks, though never really expecting much response from his strange daughters.

  ‘We’ve got a project to write,’ says Perch.

  Carp perks up on cue.

  ‘On family trees,’ she adds.

  ‘How interesting,’ enthuses Mrs Fishcutter, always hopeful of being included in the family discussions.

  ‘We need to go the adult library,’ says Perch to her father, ignoring her stepmother.

  ‘To see some examples,’ continues Carp, catching her twin’s eye.

  Involuntarily, Mr Fishcutter tightens the grip on his knife.

  ‘Our history teacher says the librarian there will help us.’

  ‘She’s a nice lady, so Miss Timeline says.’

  ‘We’ve seen her in the park, with her lovely earrings.’

  ‘But we don’t know her.’

  ‘Only seen her.’

  ‘In the park.’

  ‘And in the street.’

  ‘Yes, and in the street.’

  ‘But we don’t know her at all.’

  The Twins’ words are arrows. Mr Fishcutter feels the wounds open inside him.

  ‘She sounds lovely,’ says Mrs Fishcutter, quickly, during the ceasefire.

  Mr Fishcutter mashes one of the boiled potatoes with his fork, crumbling the powdery vegetable to a pulp. The girls look at each other and lick their lips like cats.

  ‘Can you come with us, Father dear?’ asks Perch, testing the demon inside of him.

  ‘To the adult library,’ says Carp.

  Their father sighs.

  ‘I’m too busy this week,’ he says. ‘I never get any time to go to the library.’

  ‘For your accounts, dear,’ says his second wife. ‘For your accounts.’

  ‘Oh yes, for my accounts,’ he says quietly, a sudden sharp pain striking around his heart.

  He rises slowly from the table.

  ‘Dear, what’s the matter?’ asks his worried wife.

  ‘A touch of indigestion, I think. The potatoes,’ he says. ‘Please excuse me.’

  He takes the Bible from the sideboard, a drowning man looking for driftwood. ‘I’ll go upstairs and rest. I can do some reading for tonight’s Bible study.’

  The three watch him slowly and painfully leave the room and listen to his laboured footsteps ascend the stairs to the bedroom above.

  A stony silence falls over the dining room. The girls set about their meal heartily and eat with gusto. Their stepmother pushes a carrot around a potato, wishing things were otherwise.

  Today at school, Mr Tovey, my favourite teacher, told us the story of Llewellyn, Prince of Wales, his little boy, the dog and the wolf. It made me think about the way people don’t really understand what animals are trying to do.

  Llewellyn loved to hunt and always took his Irish wolfhound with him. The dog’s name was Gelert. The prince had lots of dogs, but Gelert was his favourite and was always there ready and waiting for his master in time for the morning hunt. One day Gelert did not turn up. Llewellyn was surprised and worried, but eventually went off with the others. However, he could not enjoy the hunt and after a while
hurried back home to see what could have happened to his favourite dog. He was met by Gelert, who greeted his master. Llewellyn was horrified to see the dog covered in blood. Rushing into the castle where his baby son was, he found the cradle overturned and empty. There was no sign of the child anywhere, but the floor and walls were covered with blood.

  He turned to Gelert, thinking he must have killed and eaten the baby. Llewellyn drew his sword and plunged it into the heart of the dog. Gelert let out a mournful cry as he sank to the floor and died. As the dog fell silent, Llewellyn heard the sobbing of his baby son. Llewellyn found his child under a pile of blankets from the cradle. The baby was unharmed. Nearby, Llewellyn found the bloodied and dead body of a huge wolf, which had obviously been slain by Gelert after a ferocious battle.

  The Prince was so sad to have doubted the loyalty of his dog that he had a royal funeral for the body of Gelert. The town that grew up nearby was called Bedd Gelert, which means ‘the grave of Gelert’.

  Was the wolf a were-wolf in disguise? Maybe one of King Edward I’s assassins came from England to kill the baby. Maybe if the Great Aunt had had a wolf-hound it could have protected her baby girl from the were-horses or real horses who burnt her in the coach-house. The dog could have picked her up gently in his jaws and carried her to safety. Stigir would have done it if he had been there. I know he would have done. So would Blue Monkey.

  My strange friendship with Dilip comes to an abrupt halt during the half-term holidays. Mother had arranged for me to spend every other day at his house. This was a problem, because it meant leaving Stigir alone with Mother and Great Aunt. But I was given no choice. Most days we played about in the garden. We’d walk around, much the same as we did in the playground at school. We’d turn over stones, exposing the ants and earwigs, worms and centipedes squinting in the bright sunlight, alarmed at their secret lives being revealed. We’d watch them scurrying around in startled attempts to reorder their disturbed worlds.

  One afternoon we filled a bucket with water from the tap and set about making a pond in a dip in a flowerbed. For half an hour we wallowed around in the mud, never succeeding in getting the water level much above an inch or so. Just as we are about to give up and go back to his bedroom there is a loud bang on the front door, followed by voices and shouts from the house. Then I see Father crash through the back door into the garden.

  ‘Get your coat,’ he slurs, ‘you’re not staying here. Look at you, covered in mud like some pig in muck.’

  I look down at my clothes. I have the empty bucket in my hand, my trousers and jumper are splattered with mud and dirt. Father’s son: the piglet.

  Dilip’s mother and father stand by the back door. Father’s nostrils flare. This, in our family of Celts, indicates two things. One, all reason and normality are about to be put to one side. Two, serious violence is likely, if not imminent. This is where the human form is a cloak of the animal.

  ‘What am I paying you two pigs for?’ he shouts. ‘My boy’s covered in muck and you just stand there gawping.’

  ‘Don’t speak to us like that, you ignorant man,’ protests Dilip’s father.

  This, I already know, is not a good thing to say.

  Sure enough, before you can say ‘get your gum-shield in’ Father becomes the boxer. A sweet uppercut to Mr Dilip’s jaw sends the teeth through his lip, bringing a scream of horror from Mrs Dilip. Dilip looks at me with a kind of smile, though I know this is no smiling matter. Father proceeds to beat Mr Dilip up and down the garden path, with Mrs Dilip screeching in pursuit. Mr Dilip is clearly no fighting man. Within a few blows the bout is over. Mr and Mrs Dilip are left in a heap in the hydrangea bushes.

  But something else catches my attention. Something far more memorable than this scene of ordinary violence. I turn my head and there at the Dilip’s upstairs window is Blue Monkey watching the bout through a pair of sports binoculars. This is the first time I have ever seen him away from my bedroom. Yet it makes me feel safe that he is here. He looks grand and dapper and brings a sense of lightness to the madness. He wears a tartan blazer, a morning-fresh red rose in his button-hole and his betting ticket is tucked into the band of his trilby hat. I sense he knows the odds were always going to be short, with no doubt about the outcome.

  Before I can wave a hello, Father, breathing heavy fumes of stale whiskey and cigarettes, grabs me by the arm and frogmarches me out of the house. As I leave I see Dilip half-raising a goodbye hand. Goodbye, Dilip, I think. I doubt they’ll be any more awkward walks down the laneway with you and your grandmother.

  Back at home in my bedroom, the world being turned upside-down downstairs, I tell Blue Monkey of the day’s events. As if he doesn’t know. Never once do I let on that I saw him at the upstairs window at Dilip’s house, his winnings long since collected from the betting office in the High Street. I might not have Dilip for a friend, but I know Blue Monkey will never let me down.

  ELEVEN

  OSCAR BECOMES THE CHILD DETECTIVE

  ‘The pure and warm heart feels the Father like a sweet scent in the evening air, like the presence of a friend in the dark twilight room, like a melody entering within and sweetening the soul.’ Gilfillan

  Father is not long back from sea. He often spends several days in bed after the first major drinking bout down by the quays. But last night he had a fist fight with the Harbour Master and wrecked the lounge bar of the Seaman’s Rest in a triumphant encore. So he’s hibernating and secretly licking his ego, and his cracked jawbone.

  The Mother is hiding somewhere else in the house, deep in the all too familiar shame of it all, what with the Dilip interlude and now this. On top of everything, police charges might be pending, or so I heard.

  After expressing her disgust, the Great Aunt is well out of sight, somewhere in the recesses of the coach-house. So, under the cover of dark, it’s easy for me and Stigir to slip out the kitchen door, pop through the hole in the garden fence and scurry off down the lane towards town. No one will be looking for us, they can’t even find themselves.

  Through the thick glass of the fish-shop window the moonlight strokes the silvery scales of the sea bass, trout and salmon. The single swordfish lies prostrate on a funereal bed of parsley, the magnificent barbs of its sword silenced. As with every night, the town’s cats, like so many small children at a toyshop at Christmas, press their noses against the cold glass, transfixed by the wonders on display. Just out of reach. Tantalising. Bewitching. One ear twitches. A whisker is caught by the passing breeze. Shades of greens and greys, hazels and blues, are focused on the plump silvery meat lying in rows, like dead soldiers.

  Stigir barks to let them know he is near.

  ‘Quiet, Stigir,’ I say. ‘It’s night-time. No one must hear us.’

  Stigir looks up at me. He understands, but he is excited by this adventure. This detective work. I need him with me, to be a witness. For collaboration. A stray cat runs across our path. Stigir strains at the leash, but says nothing. I ruffle his fur and pat his head.

  ‘Good dog, good boy.’

  The sea is calm tonight. The moon has taken care of that. A small boat bobbles on the gentle swell. A solitary wave slaps the seawall to keep it awake. All else is silent.

  ‘We will wait, Stigir. We will be patient, like real detectives.’

  It is cold, but so it should be, as we take up our position in the shelter by the Harbour Master’s office. Stigir jumps on to the bench next to me. I can feel the warmth and comfort of his body next to mine. So we begin our vigil. To collect evidence. The lights in the fish shop window are out. But it is the window above that holds my attention. The light is on, and through the net curtains I can make out the silhouette of Mr Fishcutter. He knots a tie around his neck and then combs his hair. I fancy the curtain flickers, but it is a trick of the night. I blink my eyes.

  I reach into my pocket and pick out the crumpled note I copied from Mr Fishcutter’s postcard to Mrs April. The postcard showed a picture of Wells Cathedral, sketched in ink and
watercolour. It had been pushed behind the clock on the kitchen mantelpiece. One afternoon, after a game of chess, Mrs April asked me into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. Then the coalman knocked at the door. While Mrs April was busy counting sacks of coal and paying up, I took my chance to look around the room. And there was the postcard. I could hear the avalanche being tipped into the coal hole and knew I only had a minute or so. I felt like a prospector striking gold.

  In large handwriting the message read: Be with you at your house, nine o’clock, Tuesday night, xxx.

  I put two and two together and made Mr Fishcutter.

  The light goes off in the upstairs room of the fishmonger’s shop. Presently, the front door opens and he steps out into the street, the speckled band around his neck. He looks up and down the way, maybe out of habit more than necessity, then turns the corner and heads up towards town. We are about to leave our hiding place to follow in his footsteps when the door to the shop opens again. Out into the street come Perch and Carp. Quietly, carefully, they close the door behind them and hurry off in the direction of their father.

  I look at Stigir, who is awaiting the command to follow the scent.